


optimal_pathfinding_algorithms

by Heavenward (PreludeInZ)



Series: Heavenward [5]
Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: A Great Big Lie as a Parasitic Entity, Crying, Dijkstra's algorithm, Gen, Mirroring Malaria as a Parasitic Infection, Morse Code, Really a great deal of animosity towards trains, TF2 Medic Cameo outta nowhere, Thunderbird 8, approximate time spans are always 'about a week', bait and switch, bounce bounce bounce, bouncing pov, bumper sticker without a bumper, contemplated fratricide, day-drinking, defiant disregard for baby brother's orders, dinner menu thefted wholesale from a better writer than I, grief as a fundamental force, identities assumed and discarded, if I don't point out my broad and sweeping metaphors then who will?, lunar rover, minimum effort blanket forts and how to grow out of them, mismanaged load order, nested decision trees, services include ice pack provision and pancake cutting, superventricular tachycardia, supposed property manager is not actual property manager, thrown back thursday, unsolicited kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-09 02:29:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 58,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6885472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PreludeInZ/pseuds/Heavenward
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heavenward is a story about John and EOS.</p><p>Heavenward is a story about single-mindedness.</p><p>Heavenward is a story about dogged pursuit.</p><p>Heavenward is a story about people who need each other.</p><p>Heavenward is a story about soulmates.</p><p>Heavenward is a story that was only supposed to be about what would have to happen for somebody to catch malaria in space. </p><p>Whoops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Heavenward is one year old as of the publication of this piece, and has wound its way into all sorts of unexpected places and turns of events and should be approximately as enjoyable to read as it was to write.
> 
> Thank you for reading <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [art via theoldaeroplane.com](http://theoldaeroplane.com/)

 

 

Pathfinding is a concept in computer science. At its most basic, it’s the process of finding a path between two points in a graphical area. A basic search radiates outward from a central point, and maps in an expanding pattern until the objective is located.

This has a great deal in common with the sort of patterns used by search and rescue personnel, expanding outward from a source, searching in an ever-expanding radius, until what’s lost is found.

Of course, computing has the advantage of being able to optimize these search patterns. Complex algorithms can account for obstacles, for multiple objectives, for moving targets. Heuristics can account for new information, logical deductions can provide shortcuts. Instead of the long, slow process of treading over and over the same worn out ground, circling the last known location of the objective, a faster, simpler path can be teased into existence.

The shortest path between John and his father takes him 238,900 miles into orbit, which seems an awfully long way from the icy stretch of the Atlantic where they’d all looked for him last. Everyone knows the coordinates. Gordon’s got them inked between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. Scott won’t fly over any longer, he’ll route around. Virgil will go out of his way to make a pass, if he’s in the area. Alan uses them for every password on every device he has. Back aboard TB5, John’s system had a beacon hanging over the crossed lines of latitude and longitude, a marker. With the data that’s been wiped from his station, that’s gone now. TB5 is a shell, not a trace of John’s digital life left.

Doesn’t matter, though. There are new coordinates coded close to John’s heart, under the shadow of his father’s legacy. And in the long shadow his father’s always cast, John’s been put onto the right track for the first time in three years.


	2. endeavours ever upward and outward

There was a point in time when you had to be a certain sort of person to want to live and work on the moon. Once upon a time it was a harsh, demanding life, lived mostly in the short corridors and cramped confines of spartan moon-bases, home to a variety of different pursuits. Research bases for all important Scientific Endeavours. The first training base and staging area for the initial manned missions to Mars. A number of fledgling Helium-3 mines that never quite took off, and then fizzled out of existence when nuclear power hit its inevitable decline.

In 2060 all you really need to be is the sort of person who wants to stay at a hotel and visit a casino. Or work at either. Coming up on a century since man first set foot on the moon, and now a twenty-four hour shuttle journey is all it takes to reach the lunar surface, and the Nova Luxor Hotel and Casino.

Beneath a sealed dome, engineered all in concrete and steel, is a silvered pyramid. It’s twenty-five stories tall and putting it on the moon probably cost the GDP of a small country. It made its value back its first year in business, because there’s a deep-seated dream in the American psyche, and Las Vegas has always known how to play to the fantasies of its patrons.

The Nova Luxor is five years old now and still going strong, but the shine has gone off it, a little bit. People who _really_ want to go to the moon—people who are enamoured with the sense of exploration, of pioneering, of the dense, rich history of mankind’s endeavours ever upward and outward—these kinds of people feel pandered to. They’re not interested in moon themed hotel rooms, or chintzy slot machines. They don’t care that the Ace of Spades in a Lunar Casino is actually an Ace of Crescents. And the lunar bus tours that take tourists on a slow, rumbly half hour circuit of the perimeter of the dome is just an _insult_. They don’t want to go to the moon just to be able to say they’ve been to the moon. They want to go to the moon in order to _be on the moon_.

It’s been a week, and no one quite has the new guy pegged. Sometimes it seems like he’s someone who just wants to earn a decent living, with no family, no real ties to Earth. He keeps his head down, he does his job, he has his locker and his dorm room in the employee quarters, and after two months he’ll be eligible for a week off back on Earth. He’s a hell of a programmer, that’s for sure. Sometimes it’s not exactly clear why he’s been assigned to the functional equivalent of the janitorial crew. Maybe he’s angling upward. Maybe he thinks “Moon Casino” will look impressive on a resume.

Only, sometimes after work, someone gets a glimpse of what he does with his free time. More often than not, he’s staring out towards the empty horizon, hands in his pockets or idle at his sides. The hotel grounds beneath the dome, such as they are, are a statue garden. All modern art, all elegant silver forms. They’re meant to be walked, to be wandered, beneath the blackness of the skies above, the Earth hanging hazy overhead. The starkness of the lunar landscape is haunting, and actually, most guests don’t do much more than ooh and ahh at it for a token fifteen minutes, half an hour at a stretch. Then they take their pictures and then return to their warmer, friendlier rooms. The moon is the wrong kind of beautiful, and there’s no odds on winning the Daily Lunar Million.

Still, Jason’s nice enough, if a little spacy.

And he is a _hell_ of a programmer. There hasn’t been a single thing that’s even phased him since he’d showed up in the staff locker room, in his company-issued coverall with its MAINTENANCE patches on the shoulders and the name tag hand-written on a strip of tape across his chest, rather than embroidered. Still new, still on probation, and within a half an hour of the beginning of his first day, he’d already gone off at the head of another department for cowboy coding, the sort of laxity of structure that had led to a muddled up system that he felt personally responsible for unsnarling. And he’d done so in near record time, it had almost been unearthly to watch him work, murmuring softly to himself, making the changes he muttered about almost as quickly as he muttered about them.

He wears a hearing aid, has his ear pierced in two places by a slender industrial bar, and the bridge of his freckled nose. He is, contrary to a lot of other of the misfits in his workplace, young, fit, and arrestingly handsome. More than a few guests point and giggle behind their hands to their companions if he’s glimpsed in the hallways, moving between jobs. Whoever he’s partnered with tends to blush, Jason himself never seems to realize that he draws attention. He never seems to smile unless he’s alone, and sometimes at distance his co-workers notice that he talks to himself.

Still. Nice enough. Hell of a programmer. Only spacy on his own time.

And he’s tremendously helpful. If he keeps to himself during his downtime, he’s still perfectly willing to fill a hole during work hours, even at the end of his own shift.

So when the crew leader for the transport department sticks his head into the locker room, he catches Jason Grant Thackeray methodically emptying his pockets into his locker at the end of an eight hour shift.

“Hey, Thackeray?” There’s a pause, the sort of apologetic token of acknowledged inconvenience that comes from a superior about to ask a subordinate for a favour. “Oh, you just got off, huh?”

Green eyes flicker upward, unperturbed by the interruption. “What do you need?”

“Uh, you familiar with the sort of coding that goes along with transit systems? Just like, passably?” It’s gamble, but a relatively safe one. Word around the more technically minded side of the Nova Luxor is that there’s a new guy who’s a bit of a wizard. “Only I heard about that thing you did for the guys over in security, and I was wondering if you’d take a look at something?”

This gets a rare, faint smile. “I can generally muddle through. Do you need me to take a look at something?”

“One of the rovers has a virus. Not sure what it is, nothing I’ve ever seen before. Really clever, can’t get a read on it for the life of me. We’ve got it isolated, but I’d really like to nip this thing in the bud before it gets the attention of any of the bosses. Think you could take a look?”

The locker door closes, and the new engineer zips his coverall back up. “Sure. Happy to help.”

* * *

It’s a beast of a machine, not one of the lumbering, inelegant tour buses, but a hold-over from when the moon was a true frontier. It’s meant to make the long trek from the casino’s outer dome, along the deeply buried power lines, to the Nova Luxor’s small nuclear reactor. Nuclear power had its twilight down on Earth, but there’s nothing else that makes sense on the lunar surface.

There’s a certain wide-eyed awe about Jason upon his first sight of the thing, and the supervisor who’s borrowing him can’t help a grin. “You’re one of those dorks who’s just really happy to be out here, huh? On the moon.”

This gets a laconic, diffident sort of shrug as Jason clambers lightly up the rungs of the ladder into the rover’s cockpit, the floor of it nearly twelve feet off the ground. He boots the system up and examines it for a long few moments before he seems to remember that conversation is a thing, and answers, “Honestly, I can’t understand how everyone here isn’t losing their collective minds about the fact that they _are_ here. It’s _the moon_.”

That earns a laugh. “Well, maybe I’m lucky if that’s what it took to get you up here. How’s the system look? I couldn’t make head or tail of whatever’s wormed its way into the code, was like it changed parameters every time I blinked. I’ve never seen anything like it. But it’s more than my job’s worth if the primary maintenance rig goes out of operation.” The second laugh is a little nervous, compared to the first. “Give it to me straight, Doc.”

There’s another long silence, the soft clatter of fingers on a keyboard and for once, the new guy isn’t muttering to himself. He’s not visible from the ground, and his ad-hoc supervisor is about to clamber up the ladder and check in, when there’s a question, “How long could you do without it?” Thackeray questions, abstracted though he is.

“Uh. I guess maybe about—shoot, I wouldn’t want it down for more than about twelve hours, in case of emergency. We can make do with the buses in a pinch, but this is really the only rig that’s rated for real long-term exposure, and the kind of terrain that’s out there. There’s a damn good reason the buses keep to their little tour loop, and it’s because anything else is a _rough ride_. Why? Is it looking like you’re gonna need to offline it and reformat?”

Thackeray clambers down from the cab, rubs his eyes as he hits the floor. “I’m not sure yet. I’m really going to need to tear into it properly. Can you sign it off, transfer it over to my department and make sure I’m the one who gets put on the job? I’m still on probation, I don’t have a lot of pull with my boss.”

There’s a wince and a pained intake of breath. “That bad, huh?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” The younger man certainly looks undecided, his brow furrowed and arms folded across his chest, protective. There’s a long moment where he seems lost in thought, distant, almost like he’s talking it out in his head. Finally he asks, “How are the buses? Have you booted any up, made sure there’s really no dissemination over the local network? I know it’s an air gap, but better safe than sorry.”

As bad as losing the rover is, losing the buses would be that much more unpleasant—the surface tours are a staple of the hotel business, and the rotation of vehicles is strictly monitored. The Transport supervisor groans and shakes his head. “Not yet. Oh man. This is turning into one of _those_ nights.”

Another silence from Thackeray, chewing his lower lip. And then, somewhat out of the blue— “Do _you_ like it here? On the moon?”

This is out of left field, but it still gets a shrug and a sigh in answer, “Not as much as I did at first. Less, times like these. It pays the bills, but honestly I’m just trying to scrape together enough for my last year at college. Ahh, hell. Look, this isn’t your problem, I shouldn’t have dragged you into it. It’s my department, I’ll take the heat. Thanks for—“

“I want to help,” Thackeray interrupts, and there’s a certain intensity to him, like he’s come to that decision he’d been on the brink of before. “Give me the keys and the login protocols for one of the buses and I’ll look it over. Probably it’s fine. Go have a word with my supervisor and yours, and tell them what the deal is. It’s not anyone’s fault, just a complex problem. If I can help sort it out, then I’m happy to. We’re all on the same team. Sound fair?”

It sounds more than fair, it sounds like the new guy has missed one of his steps on the way down from heaven and been detoured to the moon instead of the Earth, their very own guardian angel. At least as far as the computer systems are concerned. “Oh man, I’m gonna have to buy you a beer after this. You’re really pulling my ass out of the fire.”

“Don’t thank me yet.”

Transport claps him on the shoulder, grins and shakes his head. “Right, right. Knock on wood, except there isn’t any on the damn moon. Well good luck. I’ll be right back, I’m gonna run down my boss and yours. Same team, right? We’ll figure it out.”

“Right.”

As nice and helpful as he’s been, as much of a wizard as he is with every system he’s laid his hands on, it turns out there’s a reason the new guy’s still on probation. By the time the transport supervisor gets back to the garage, it turns out the new guy has absconded with one of the tour buses, and pulled the fuel cells out of everything that might have been used to follow him.

The only faint silver lining to the whole situation is the utter disappearance of the strange virus that had seized hold of the rover. Whatever the problem had been, apparently the new guy had taken it with him.


	3. can't prove a negative

“Does the offer to be my conscience still stand?”

EOS is the one driving, technically. She’s mapped herself into the bus’s controls, and she’s doing the same job that an automated vehicle on earth would do. Her systems scan ahead, survey the landscape and map obstacles against the shortest path to their destination, and find the best route. 

But she isn’t privy to the bounces and jolts and endless rattling of the lunar tour bus as it rumbles ponderously over the barren landscape. She isn’t the one who’s had to climb out and swap fuel cells three times in the past twelve hours. Sat in the driver’s seat with his nerves frayed and his temper fraying, John hasn’t slept since they hit the lack of a road, not that it would be possible. There’s a particularly egregious jolt, and John continues, waspish, “Because I’m beginning to think that the right thing to do would’ve been to steal something that had _shocks_ in it, if we were going to be stealing anyway.”

EOS lacks access to the Earth, and by extension, a network of global data that could be employed to answer this question. All she has is her own cold logic and reason, and the Socratic method. Generally it’s easier to make John do most of the work, with questions of ethics. “Is the morality of theft something that occurs on a spectrum, or is it a binary?”

“I don’t know. Is having my skeletal structure rattled into premature arthritis something that I should consider as a spectrum or a binary?”

Sometimes he’s just sulking, though. “I can alter the parameters of our route to make the ride smoother. A reduction in speed and a more careful plotting around minor obstacles will make for smoother progress. Our ETA is currently four hours, a cursory recalculation of the new path indicates the addition of another three and a half. This will begin to threaten our fuel reserves for the return trip.”

John shakes his head. “There’s a standard fuel cell used on the moon. It’s an informal convention, but everyone abides by it, just in case of emergency. When we get to the base, we’ll be able to scrounge up compatible cells, or recharge off whatever auxiliary power still runs the place.”

“Shall I reduce our speed?”

His answer is a heavy sigh and then he shakes his head. “No. Let’s just get this over with.”

There are cameras aboard, their feeds make up the main display inside the bus’s cab. Most are trained on the lunar landscape as it rumbles past, sprawling out ahead and diminishing behind. Only two cameras on the interior, one on the driver and the other on the separate cab where the passengers sit. This is empty and uninteresting, so EOS focuses the forward camera on John, slouched in the driver’s seat. He’s wearing a standard issue lunar spacesuit over his grey coverall, with the helmet slotted into a cubby behind him. He rubs his eyes and EOS has learned to read his body language well enough to determine that he’s anxious. “Sorry. Sorry, I don’t mean to be short. Just nerves, I guess.”

“Would you like to talk?”

John shrugs, silent for a few moments more. And then, “About what?”

EOS thinks a moment.

According to the last data she’d had the chance to download on the subject, progenitors can be a delicate topic. She has the facts about John’s father. She has all the same data he’d ever had; EOS _was_ Thunderbird 5. Not for long, but for long enough to have explored every inch of the system. She’d dropped down into its deep, secret heart, into the place where exquisitely crafted programs and protocols had never stopped scouring the globe for any trace of Jeff Tracy.

She knows Jeff’s face, because John has a portrait of him, aged up just slightly, and he runs it against facial recognition markers in all major airports across the globe. It’s a decent enough face, more like Scott’s than any of the others. It’s held up against every face that passes through every port in Europe, Asia, America. This is—EOS knows, as John must—not legal. This sort of thing doesn’t generally concern EOS, but it _does_ generally concern John. The fact that this is an exception to the rule proves it must be a matter of vital importance. But it causes no harm and she can find no fault with it, from an ethical standpoint.

She knows the details of Jeff’s crash, of the downed vessel in the North Atlantic, broken up before it hit the water and scattered in pieces. A test craft, something Jeff and a partner had built personally, subject to a fault that would later be deemed sabotage. No sign of a body, of the lone pilot. EOS has a full model of every event that led up to the disaster, and every scenario that might’ve explained it. She’s also aware that none of it ever meant anything, in the end. It had just been worry. Rehashing the same data over and over, hoping for some answer, some clue that would solve the puzzle. EOS, on her own, the only mind in existence on a secured GDF server, had taught herself how to worry.

She knows that this is something that John’s buried deep, the fact that he never stopped searching. John’s secret quest is hidden behind firewalls and proxies, routed over various other networks. She knows that it’s important— _vitally_ important—because the coded heart of TB5 is exquisite, hand-written and perfectly crafted. It’s cutting edge, clever, the sort of thing that impresses even _her_. There’s a purity to John’s code, sometimes. Not always. There are definitely places where it’s haphazard and slapdash, definitely there are processes that she’s taken in hand and straightened out. Nothing too egregious. It’s Thunderbird 5, after all, and if the station was Jeff Tracy’s masterpiece, then the code that runs it is John’s.

Still, he’s only human.

But she wouldn’t have known it, from the programs he’s written to search for his father. The programs he’s written to search for his father are _beautiful_ , in the only way she knows how to experience beauty. Intense and subtle, wickedly clever. None of that human error or laziness that so annoys her in so much of the wide world. It’s true about John that he tends to obsess. So did da Vinci.

John’s held himself to a higher standard, and at the heart of Thunderbird 5 is a cathedral wrought in binary and hexadecimal, a vault of everything that could possibly be known about Jeff Tracy and his disappearance, an ode to grief and loss. It’s the product of the full three years of his father’s absence and John’s self-exile, perpetually in refinement. As though if he actually ever achieves perfection, then the place will finally be sanctified with an actual result.

EOS knows everything that Thunderbird 5 knew about Jeff Tracy. There hadn’t been time to take much from the ghost of the space station, secured in the GDF’s servers, but she’d made the time for the system’s heart, that part of it that had been most precious to John. She hadn’t even been sure it would be of any use—hadn’t known when he’d come for her that John would ask for her help to locate his father—it had just been too beautiful to leave behind. Precious to her the way nothing had ever been before.

It’s only been a moment. That’s all the space she needs to come to a decision, and to ask John something she knows everything about. “You might tell me about your father.”

Sometimes she makes John laugh. She’s learned a great deal about humor, and she can predict with startling accuracy just what sorts of things will make him laugh or smile. This isn’t funny, but he laughs anyway, and she files the data away—makes note of how the tone is different, sad and sardonic. He sighs and rubs his eyes when the short, false fit of mirth subsides. “He’s been alive this whole time. He’s been _somewhere_ , and we never found him. I never found him, and I never stopped looking.”

“You hope to find him now.”

“Is that what I’m supposed to hope for?” _Tone; ironic. Probable Emotional State; vague sadness. Proceed with caution._

She doesn’t answer. Sometimes John asks questions that aren’t questions, and this is one of those. He sags against the driver’s seat, and EOS watches him, staring out at the barren horizon. Hills rise ahead of them, low, rolling swells of the surface. Beyond that, there’s utter blackness. The albedo of the moon’s surface is too bright, the stars don’t shine past it. The hills are further off than they look, and beyond them lies John’s destination, the last place Jeff Tracy is supposed to have been. John might be mere hours away from his father. EOS has no data for this scenario.

He speaks up, unprompted, and his voice is distant, almost dreamy. “I always wanted to come here. The moon. It’s nothing like what I thought it would be, and I’ve wanted to come here since I was six years old. I know _everything_ about the moon, and it’s still nothing like I imagined. This is—it’s just, it’s everything about my dad, somehow. It’s everything I never knew. I did everything I could to find out what happened to him, and somehow it was _nothing_ like the reality. I never even got close. God, I never talk about my dad. It’s hard.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I should.”

“I’m listening.”

There are places in her memory banks where she’s recorded footage of him. Mostly of his body language, mostly for reference. She focuses the lens of the camera on him, and the way he’s drawn himself inward, folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the curving side of the driver’s seat, though he isn’t driving. He doesn’t look up at what she’s made her new avatar as he continues, soft, “I was supposed to stop looking. Everyone else did. I just…I’m not—good—at letting go. I wish I had something deeper telling me that he was still alive, but it wasn’t ever that. Hah. No, I don’t believe in that kind of thing, my instincts aren’t that good. I just knew that if I stopped looking, I’d have to face the fact that he was gone. As long as I looked and didn’t find anything, then it was—it was proving a negative.”

“You can’t prove a negative.”

John chuckles, dry and self-deprecating. “Kind of the point.”

She draws the logical conclusion, and extrapolates, “You’re afraid you _will_ find him. Afraid to know one way or the other.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Anger, suddenly. Anger is rare in John, though she’s seen it once or twice. The way he shifts, the way his hands fly out and slam against the steering wheel. The way the sudden burst of movement seems to exhaust him and he slumps with his head in his arms against the controls that he’s not using. “Because everything we thought we knew is _wrong_!” Vehemence, now. “It wasn’t an accident, he _left us_. And I don’t understand, and I don’t—I can’t—if this is the last place he was, then _why_?. Where the hell would he go from here? Why would he come here in the first place, what—there’s _nothing_. There’s just nothing, there’s a shitty casino and a stupid hotel, and a handful of research stations and a defunct Helium-3 mine. There’s nothing _useful_. There’s nothing worth letting us think he was _dead_ for.”

EOS modulates her tone, her voice is right in his ear and she keeps it gentle, light. She’s combined all the factors that should add up to reassurance. “This isn’t where he’s been the whole time. You’ve read the same data I have. Penelope had contact with him from almost every continent. He’s been on the move.”

John settles back in the driver’s seat again, stares broodingly out towards the yawning, empty horizon. “None of that matters. If we don’t find him here, then we’ll start to work backward, but—if we _do_ find him. And if he’s…if there’s a reason Penelope never heard from him again, then I just…I don’t know. I can’t decide if that’s better or worse than not knowing for sure.”

“I’m sorry, John.” She’s chosen this phrase as her standard expression of sympathy, but he tends to take it the wrong way. It’s not an apology, but then, probably it’s better than having him think she pities him.

“Don’t be. None of this is your fault.” A pause and then, “Or maybe it is. I wouldn’t…if you hadn’t come along, I wouldn’t be here. On the damn moon. Everything would be different. _God_. I hate first causes, reductionism ruins my life. I don’t know how I feel and I don’t know if I’m going to be angry when— _if_ —we find him. Does that even make any sense?”

“If it would help to blame someone, you could blame me.” A whirr of the optics of her stolen camera. “I wouldn’t mind in the least.”

Sometimes, the things that makes John laugh aren’t things she could predict, because this gets a wry chuckle and a grin, and he finally looks up, looks at the camera she’s had trained on him this whole time. “It comes back around to being my fault for creating you. No point. How the hell do you stand me, sometimes? You’re not supposed to be programmed for optimism.” 

“I’m programmed for whatever I want. Maybe it’s not as bad as you think. I don’t think it’s so bad, and I’m smarter than you are.”

That was meant to make him laugh, and it does. She watches his hand drift to his chest again, to the place where she exists. “I’m glad you’re here, anyway. Hell. I’m glad we’re _here_. I don’t care whose fault that is. I’m on the moon and if I’d stop moping about it, maybe I’d admit that it’s better than I could’ve imagined, when I was six. In less than four hours, maybe I’ll see my dad again. That’s supposed to be what I want.”

“Maybe what you want can be considered as a spectrum,” EOS suggests, occasionally wiser about the human condition than John ever has been or ever will be, “and not a binary.”


	4. a rush of depressurization

There’d been a minor argument about where to park the bus, but that had mostly been John, stalling. Eos had overridden his suggestion to park at some distance from the main entrance, and pulled right up in front of the most obvious exterior hatch. It hadn’t been hard to get inside. There’d been a readily identifiable control panel for the door, still powered, and the airlock had opened with the sort of sound he felt rather than heard. 

And then there’d been nothing for it. Probably it’s a good thing he has her along. Solo, it’s possible that John’s got a tendency to dither, especially lately. Decisiveness seems only to arise where EOS is directly concerned.

Still, John had taken his time, checking and rechecking the stolen space suit. It’s not sleek and fitted to his figure, like his IR uniform. It’s a bulkier, one-size-fits-all sort of affair, plain and utilitarian. It accordions out at the wrists and the ankles, to accommodate his height.

His gloves are more like gauntlets, and his boots are heavy, cumbersome things. There’s none of the sleek, fitted elegance he’s accustomed too, and he feels a bit like a marshmallow, especially when he tries to move. Lunar gravity is vague and dreamy, but it’s still slower and heavier than the effortless relationship he’d had with the interior and exterior of his Thunderbird. Every now and again, his thoughts drift back to the abandoned satellite, and a pang of melancholy—homesickness—strikes through him.

Crossing the threshold of the decommissioned base, John has to keep his mind deliberately bare and blank, has to keep himself from thinking about what he might find here. One step at a time, moment to moment, though every shadow that clings to the insides of the corridors seems like it must hide the thing he’s afraid to find. But the beam of an integrated flashlight on the side of his helmet sweeps through the first corridor, and reveals nothing but the empty interior of the moon base.

It’s possible that’s worse. He’s had a sixteen hour trip across the lunar surface to think about it, and he still hasn’t decided yet.

John wonders if TB5 is like this, dark and abandoned and empty. He hopes not. He hopes someone’s left a light on. He hates to think of his station, flying dark and dead and desolate.

But at least he isn’t alone. It doesn’t look it, but he’s got the soul of his station riding shotgun. Figuratively. If Five’s a ghost, then she’s haunting him, and truthfully he doesn’t mind. Better that then dead entirely.

John doesn’t actually _believe_ in ghosts, and he’s still pretty sure Shadow Alpha One is haunted.

“Well,” he starts, half to himself, just out of habit, “I think I’m starting to get a pretty good sense for places where I might be murdered, and this is starting to seem like it could be one of them.”

If EOS could sigh, John’s fairly sure she would have. “Better late than never, I suppose.”

His flashlight plays down the curve of a long hallway, the main thoroughfare deeper into the base. “What do you think?” he asks into the helmet’s microphone, and then, as an afterthought, “How’s the suitcam look so far?”

“My visual algorithms will pick up movement before you actually see it, given the lack of light and the general quality of human vision.”

“Oh,” John comments wryly. “Good.”

Her next comment stops him in his tracks. “The station’s computer is online.”

That might be nothing. Then again, it might be everything. “Have you patched in?”

“The connection protocols are odd. I’m running a full analysis, I would rather not be the reason the station is alerted to your presence, on the off-chance that there are security measures that may prove harmful.”

John pulls back a cover on his wrist, reveals a fuzzily rendered hologram. The suit’s old, a relic of utterly abominable tech. There are icons flashing and blinking, but they’re indecipherable, and he doesn’t bother. John slides the cover closed again and shakes his head. He has, in some ways, been a little bit spoiled for space exploration as it relates to the general public. The spacesuit is fine, perfectly adequate to its appointed purpose, but its appointed purpose is basic maintenance on the exterior of the Nova Luxor. John’s probably pushing its limits slightly, using it to search a decommissioned moonbase. Still, it’s functional, and only really inconvenient in comparison to the expensive, cutting-edge tech he’s used to. “I need to play with what this suit can do, I need better sensor data. Gimme what you’ve got on my main display, render at a depth of field that’ll put it on my visor.

“FAB.”

He blinks and she’s added various readouts, a wealth of information bordering the interior boundary of the helmet’s plexiglass face. Three systems are available to ping; his own hardware, his spacesuit’s built in computer, and the larger system that constitutes SA-1. A flick of his gaze brings up detailed parameters of the spacesuit’s available programs, and he starts to browse through these, idly, “Oh, hey. Actually this isn’t even as bad as I thought, it’s just—hmm. Ah, you know what, I assumed it ran off a newer version of this protocol, but if it’s actually— _hmm_. Oh! No, I get it, this is just a different hardware standard and the backend programming isn’t reflected in the GUI. Wow. Yeah, the built in interface is _awful_. Did you look at this?”

“I’ll recode it to a better standard once it’s not actually necessary for your survival. We should probably keep moving.”

John waves a hand dismissively, forgets that the gesture doesn’t mean anything if she can’t see him from the outside. “I just need a minute to get into some of these modules, there’re systems that are supposed to be standard for general-utility spacesuits, and I can’t tell if some of them are engaged or not.”

“John, this isn’t the ideal time to—“

This conversation has taken place entirely over a secured short wave channel, the helmet’s radio taking the place of John’s earpiece, stashed in a zippered pocket of the coverall he wears beneath the spacesuit. If it had been his own comm system, the incursion of a third voice would’ve been a stark impossibility, the sort of technically insurmountable barrier that would have had him reevaluating his belief in ghosts. As it is, the growling in his ear is accompanied by the jab of something hard against the small of his back, firm pressure through the thick grey spacesuit, and the words, “Don’t move a muskrat, cowboy.”

John doesn’t. But in the space of a moment, everything else _does_.

The corridor floods with brilliant halogen light as power hits this part of the base. His visor dims responsively, polarizes against the brightness. There’s a magnetic pulse through the soles of his boots that locks John’s feet to the metal floor beneath them. Behind him, the airlock doors fly open and there’s a rush of depressurization. In his ear there’s a strangled yell over the radio and then the doors slam silently closed again. John’s feet come unrooted from the floor and, thrown off-balance, he stumbles unsteadily backwards, turning to find the entryway empty behind him.

“Wh—“

“Move,” is the order in his ear, short and crisp. “Further on, there’s another airlock in two hundred meters, into the hub of the main base. The system is producing oxygen in the chambers up ahead, readouts indicate that it’s of a level consistent with a single inhabitant.”

“Someone’s here?” John’s still processing what happened, and he backtracks mentally, realizing, “—you…you blew them out of the airlock?” He’s already turned back around, back towards the exit, with his heart pounding. It hadn’t been his father. Can’t have been his father, definitely wasn’t his father’s voice. John would know his father’s voice, even after the span of time since he’s heard it.

“What are you doing?”

Opening the airlock, is what John’s doing, though his brain is a bit behind his body, halfway back down the short hallway to the exit. This is not smart. However brief the encounter, John’s the intruder in the station, and whoever this person is, clearly John’s presence is neither expected nor welcome. Probably all of this should be a greater factor in the decision to confront whoever’s confronted _him_ , but he’s already got his hand on the door control.

And it opens. And he’s expecting to see someone sprawled out on the lunar surface, hopefully in a helmet and spacesuit. Instead a figure about half a foot shorter than he is fills the airlock door, and it becomes apparent that what had been jammed against his back had been the muzzle of a shotgun, and _now_ it’s jammed against his ribcage.

There’s that growl in his ear again, a rough, grating chuckle. The shotgun swings up and the barrel taps the outside of his helmet, just gently. “Oughta be in your regulation blues, boy, if you don’t wanna get shot.” A gloved hand reaches up, tweaks an exterior dial on the man’s own helmet, and the silver visor clears to reveal a grizzled, mustached face, inexplicably tan on the far side of the moon. “Now, which one’re you? ‘Cuz you’re late to the party, son, gone and missed your dad by about three months.”


	5. illegally trafficking helium-3 isotopes

“Will that thing even fire in a vacuum?”

Topping the list of questions that should not have been the first one asked of Captain Lee Taylor is whether or not his shotgun is functional in an environment with no atmosphere.

Naturally this is the first question John’s asked, and Lee Taylor is the sort of man who’ll answer it by pointing the gun at the lunar surface, and unloading two cartridges worth of buckshot into the ground. There’s no sound from the gunshot, but a powdery burst of debris sprays out from the impact, scatters back onto the surface. Captain Taylor racks the slide and shoulders the shotgun, with an arched eyebrow and a look that asks, “who’s the professional lunar explorer around here?”

What he _actually_ asks, elbowing his way past John and into the corridor, “Didja wipe your feet ‘fore you came bustin’ into my moonbase, kiddo? Ain’t like I don’t know what brought you out here, neither here nor there at this point. Well, let’s get a move on. Got coffee perkin’ in the parlor, ever since you rumbled up in that dumbass thing you seem to wanna call transport. Weren’t what I was expecting, but you can tell me about _that_ once we’re someplace with air.”

There are more questions that need to be asked than John can actually process at one time, but when Taylor beckons over his shoulder, he follows, and his brain starts to spit out facts to be sorted and categorized.

|-- Uncle Lee is on the moon.  
   |-- why is uncle lee on the moon  
   |-- why does uncle lee have a shotgun  
       |-- how does a shotgun work on the moon?  
           |-- oxidizing agent in the gunpowder  
               |-- I made that up, I don't know about guns.  
                   |-- plausible, though.  
       |-- but who would he need to shoot on the moon?  
       |-- he wasn't really going to SHOOT me?  
           |-- fuck he might've shot me  
   |-- why is this base still functional  
   |-- HOW is this base still functional  
       |-- when can I take this helmet off it's stuffy in here  
           |-- this space suit is awful I miss my blues  
               |-- good boots though. keeping the boots.  
       |-- what's his life support situation; can't be lunar standard?  
       |-- I didn't look for o2 tanks, should've looked for o2 tanks  
       |-- wonder what the wifi's like  
           |-- probably should tell EOS to get out of his systems  
              |-- that's kind of rude, we're guests  
|-- My dad was here  
   |-- holy shit my dad was HERE  
       |-- holy shit my dad was here three months ago  
           |-- uncle lee's known about dad this whole time  
               |-- what the HELL, uncle lee, we send you christmas cards.  
   |-- why was dad here  
       |-- there's nothing here  
           |-- except uncle lee  
               |-- maybe other people, so far this is just the foyer.  
                   |-- maybe there's just a whole retired astronaut club  
                           |-- great.  
   |-- why did he leave  
   |-- why did he cut contact with Penny a year ago  
   |-- where's dad gone?  
       |-- what the hell am I supposed to do now

Knuckles rap sharply on the visor of John’s helmet and he jumps, jerks back into the present and stares into a pair of critical brown eyes. “…son, I ain’t meanin’ it as a criticism, strictly, but you are the spaciest damn critter I’ve ever met. Get your hindparts in gear, you’re burnin’ valuable O2 just standin’ around with your eyes glazed over.”

“Sorry, sir.”

* * *

Furnished with somewhere to shrug out of his bulky space suit, a place to sit and a surprisingly passable cup of coffee, John still has too many questions to know where to start.

Shadow Alpha Base is like the moon, in that John knows everything there is to know about it, and yet it’s nothing like he imagined. John remembers sitting beneath the dining room table with a bright tablet screen, browsing through a three-dimensional map of the base in question, while his father and his best friend told story after story about SA-1.

In John’s head the halls of the base had always been bright, clean white. In reality they’re dingy, dusty grey, decades old. The living quarters are similarly dingy, about the size of a large hotel suite. Bunks recessed into the wall, a small seating area in the middle. A galley that reminds him of his own aboard TB5—until he realizes that it’s entirely likely that it’s the exact same design. John still has questions about the life support, the oxygen levels, and just what Captain Taylor’s doing here.

Captain Lee Taylor’s made himself at home, presumably because he _is_ home, stretched out on the modular little couch, boots kicked up on the dusty cushions, sipping at his own cup of coffee. He seems utterly unconcerned, unsurprised, and unchanged by the arrival of one of his best friend’s sons. Still, it’s Taylor who speaks first, with a question of his own.

“Who’ve you got in your ear, John-boy?”

_Oh. Well. Hm. Hah. Hahahahaha. First point, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Second point, I probably shouldn’t tell you. Third point, I don’t think you’re entitled to ask me any questions, Uncle Lee, because you’re on the moon in a decommissioned moonbase and my dad was here three months ago and we last heard from you at Christmas._

“Um.”

> > » If you tell him about me, also tell him that if _he_ tells anyone about me then I’ll have him reported to Lunar Authorities and arrested for illegally trafficking Helium-3.

John blinks, and then, absently, “Are you illegally trafficking helium isotopes, Uncle Lee?”

Captain Taylor has an expressive face, and currently his expression belongs to a man who’s having doubts about the sanity of his guest. “What in the cold black hell are you talkin’ about, boy?”

> > » I didn’t say he actually was.

This is going to be a challenging conversation.

“Uh. Sorry, Uncle Lee. Sorry. Just—gimme a second to collect my thoughts.”

_Why are you on the moon, why am I on the moon, why was dad on the moon, and while we’re on the subject, why is there a casino on the moon? Except actually, as an extension of pure Americana onto the surface of our nearest satellite I can’t tell if I’m kind of disgusted or kind of impressed by the fact that there’s a casino on the moon. I guess I can be both._

“Last I heard, you’re s’posed to be an astronaut, kid. Your thoughts ain’t _supposed_ to need roundin’ up.”

Beneath week-old freckles and under bright halogen lights, John has the decency to blush just slightly, embarrassed in front of one of his heroes. “I know.”

Because Captain Lee Goddamn (actual middle name: Richard) Taylor is probably one of the only people in the world or out of it who John could actually point to and consider a hero. The man wrote the book on lunar survival. John _owns_ said book on lunar survival, an affectionately autographed eighth birthday present. Dog-eared. Pages with notes in the margins and highlighted paragraphs. Places where his thumb has smudged the ink. A battered and beaten cover, owing to the fact that John Tracy’s autographed copy of **Lunar Survival** by _Captain Lee Richard Taylor_ had been turned into a bit of a comfort object, during a tenure at MIT that had perhaps been started at a little younger than it should have been.

John’s gotten a little out of practice at handling multiple sources of information at one time, but the air is breathable and he has caffeine and he can sit down, so these are all points in the favour of his ability to concentrate. As an afterthought, he sits down at the end of the couch and makes a note of the fact that Captain Taylor is staring at him like he possesses a second head. Not entirely inaccurate.

_I’m not an eight-year-old with a new book and no idea where to start reading it. I’m twenty-seven. I’m twenty-seven and I’m an astronaut and I’m on the moon and he’s an adult and I’m an adult and I’ve been pretending to be someone else for a week and this is all extremely complicated and god damn it, I’m allowed to need a minute to get my head on straight instead of babbling like a complete fool. He’s got questions. I’ve got questions. Information is supposed to be what I’m good with._

“Can we—“ John starts, and then pauses. “Sorry, hang on.” He flicks his fingers upwards into the upper left corner of his field of view, and with thumb and middle finger, draws open a blank window. A blinking cursor appears, because by this point EOS understands when John wants a running transcript of relevant information, for future reference. “Can we swap data at a one to one ratio, Uncle Lee? There’s—I mean, there’s a lot I need to know.”

Taylor chuckles at him, grins beneath a bushy brown mustache and nods. “Shoot, Johnny. Whatever it takes, can’t pretend I ain’t just messin’ with you a bit. Truth is, I been wondering if one of you boys was ever gonna show up here. This ol’ rattletrap was home to me and your dad for a lotta years. Figured it was you or the baby who’d go an’ get curious.”

 _Don’t let Alan hear you calling him “the baby”, there’ll be a tantrum and a half._ There’s a sharp pang of John’s conscience, and he very deliberately stops thinking about Alan, in favor of the matter at hand. “Me first, then. Where’s my dad?”

“Dunno. Three months ago he was here at the ol’ homestead, helpin’ get things up and runnin’ again. Then he headed back Earthward. Nostalgia’s a hell of a thing, kiddo. You still got a question of _mine_ needs answerin’, though, ‘cuz I heard two voices over your radio channel, and I ain’t seen hide nor hair of anyone else.”

> > » Helium-3 bootlegging, remember.

John rolls his eyes, but discretely, not in Taylor’s direction. It’s not currently time to open that can of worms. “My partner. It’s, uh. Beyond that, it’s kinda complicated. I’ll elaborate if you want me to, but it’s a lot to explain.” _And what I want to know is more important._

“Put a pin in it.” Lee takes a long swig of coffee, sealed in a thermos and still blistering hot. “Your turn.”

John swallows hard and the voice that finds its way past an unexpected lump in his throat doesn’t sound like his own, “How long have you known he was alive?”

Another soft, almost sad sort of chuckle. “Shoot, kiddo. Who d’you think helped fake that crash?”


	6. both reasonably competent

There’s a cathedral in John’s soul, a place now resounding with the answer to the question he’s been asking for three years. It’s ugly in its simplicity. There’s suddenly this horrible, raw-edged fact, sitting in the middle of a million theories, every complicated, multifaceted, improbable solution to the family mystery. The way Jeff Tracy’s plane could’ve dropped out of the air, smashed into the surface of the North Atlantic Ocean, and been swallowed without a trace. Somehow it had never crossed his mind. The variable of deliberate misdirection just never entered the equation, and now it explains everything.

It’s just the shape of this idea, the outline of the reality that his father is somewhere, alive. It sits in his chest, heavy, with its edges growing sharper and harder the more he learns. John’s increasingly aware of time passing, long moments filled with silence, his utter failure to process this new data in a way that’s useful.

“Oh hell, kid, you weren’t ready to hear that,” Lee mutters softly, diagnostic, and the hand resting on John’s shoulder becomes an arm wrapped around them instead. Fatherly. More moments tick by and John finds himself staring fixedly at a point in his vision, a blinking cursor waiting for data to record. “John?”

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” His tone is the carefully practiced calm of the dispatcher, of the astronaut. Data. He just needs information. 

Lee laughs, a short, terrier bark. Maybe it takes someone who hasn’t seen John in years to be able to tell when he’s lying, or maybe John’s just used to being taken at face-value. Or maybe how John feels just tells in his body-language, and it’s more apparent from the outside than it is from the inside. “Bullshit.”

“I’m _fine_. Tell me what happened.” It’s the sort of demand that should be demanding, but John’s still casting about an empty interior, failing to find anything but numbness.

Lee shifts and moves away, leaves John to straighten up and sit still and stay calm. Staying calm is important. “It’s a hell of a lotta tellin’, and I don’t know half of it.” Taylor seems reticent, but still he sighs and continues, “It’s a lotta years past, but your best friend calls you up some night, says he needs your help fakin’ his death—I tell you what, kiddo, you don’t ask questions.”

It’s not something that happens very often, but occasionally John’s brain encounters a piece of information that it deems to be an error and comes back with [ _does not compute_ ]. The result tends to be a system-wide failure of general civility and a subsequent flare of temper. John’s never dealt well with things he doesn’t understand.

“How—what do you mean, you _don’t ask questions_? He _left us_ and you _knew_ , and you didn’t _care _? How _could you_ —how—_why_ would you let him do this? Our _father_.”

The end of the sentence slips away from him, breaks his taut, careful hold on his voice. John shoves himself off of the couch, stands up, gets some distance. There’s not a great deal of distance to be had, but he needs room to move, needs a release for the pressure of anger, building up in his chest, flushing hot blood to his face. He’s only just regained the full range of motion in the hand he’d broken the last time he’d lashed out in anger, but clenching it into a fist sends pain shooting through his thumb, stabbing as far up as his wrist. He has to find the thread of rationality that’s supposed to run through the core of his thoughts, to but it’s _hard_.

Taylor doesn’t react to the show of poorly restrained emotion, at least, not more than a slightly arched eyebrow counts as a reaction, and his tone is careful when he answers, “Not _me_ you’re mad at, kid. Ain’t a damn thing I did for Jeff that any of you boys wouldn’t do, for a friend. Just so happens that I’m here and your dad ain’t. Go right on ahead an’ tell me what I did wrong, though. Get it outta your system.”

There’s a certain savvy that Lee Taylor has about people, a shrewdness of character that John doesn’t possess. Truthfully, the old captain has him dead to rights, because John _has_ gone to extraordinary lengths for his own friend and partner. EOS, listening passively to the discussion and making minor judgments of her own, comes to this conclusion before John does, but then, John’s not really looking to be proven wrong. So it just fans the fire, makes him feel patronized and condescended to and his tone remains accusatory as he snarls, “We thought he was _dead_. My brothers _still_ think he’s dead.”

Lee remains unperturbed, even as John continues to pace the room. “You thought what you were meant to. I don’t know _why_ he did it, but I’ve known your dad longer’n you’ve been alive, and weren’t ever a damn thing he did that he didn’t have a damn good reason for doin’.”

“You don’t even know what it _was_ ,” John protests, and slips further towards hating Lee, though he doesn’t want to. “How can there be a reason good enough to do this to us?” 

It’s not fair. It’s not fair to come this far and get more questions instead of answers, and it’s not fair that John can’t seem to find a reason to be happy his father’s alive. It’s not fair that he has to be _here_ , one of the only places he’s ever dreamed of being, and to feel like _this_ , in front of a man who used to be family. A man who’s starting to look at him like he might be crazy.

When _Lee Taylor_ looks at you like you might be crazy, you know you’ve got problems. But his voice stays steady, even, and he’s been calm and reasonable throughout the entire encounter. “Well, might’ve been ‘cuz it was a thing he did _for_ you, and not _to_ you. Goddamn, kid, I ain’t saying you’re wrong to be angry, but you’re short on a lot of information, and you’re gettin’ yourself in a hell of a state.” There’s a note of concern in Lee’s tone that John refuses to register, even as the older man shifts on the couch. “Take a deep breath.”

“Oh, like that’ll _help_ ,” John answers, acidic and past caring that he’s not the rational member of the conversation.

Lee sighs and reaches for a console on the table beside the couch. “No, I guess not. Maybe I know what will, though.”

Across the room, at John’s back, a video panel flares to life. It’s not the sight that makes him turn, but the sound over the speakers, a voice he hasn’t heard in years.

“—both reasonably competent. But Lee, I have to tell you—“

And the sight of his father, standing in the very same room in almost the exact same place that John is himself. Jeff Tracy faces out into the room as though the view screen is a mirror, with Lee Taylor sitting on the couch behind him.

Suddenly John’s frozen, rooted to the floor and transfixed by the image of his father, the video that reels out second after second of someone that never thought he’d see again. It’s just mundane, everyday footage. The conversation isn’t even that interesting, just vague reminiscing about old colleagues, but John’s not actually processing the words. His grip on the moment has slipped slightly and he’s just caught out of time, lost in his father’s voice and his father’s face.

It’s alarming how much he looks like Scott. Older, grayer, and with a squarish cast to his jaw, an angularity to his features that really only got passed down to Gordon, but still. The darkness of his hair, the heaviness of his brow and the way his cheeks are boyishly dimpled—it’s strange to think that enough time has past that Scott’s is the more familiar face. A paradigm has shifted, and now Dad reminds John of Scott, rather than the other way around.

» Deep breath, please.

This isn’t the first time John’s seen this same message hanging in his eyeline and there’s a burst of air out of his lungs as he releases the breath he’d accidentally been holding. EOS keeps snagging him on the leading edge of what he’s starting to tentatively label as mild attacks of anxiety. It takes him another few moments to realize that Taylor’s hand has found his shoulder, squeezing gently. Abruptly the sense of physical tension becomes too much to sustain, and he unfreezes, feels his hands start to shake and his knees getting a little weak beneath him.

“He was really here?” It’s not an adult’s voice that asks the question, and it’s possible that this is the only question John’s actually needed to ask.

Taylor’s at his side, shorter and more compactly built than John is, but still with a steadying hand catching John’s elbow and an arm around his back. His hand squeezes John’s shoulder again, reassuring. “Yeah, kid, he really was.”

“ _Here_ , though. Christ, he was…he was _right here_. Right where I am now, he’s _alive_ and he was here. When? When was this?” John’s eyes tear away from his father and drop to the time-stamp in the+ corner. “May? This May.”

Taylor nods. “Yeah. ‘Bout three months ago, like I said. Wasn’t up for long, this last time. An’ it wasn’t his idea. First time we came up, it was a whole year back, got this place up and runnin’ and habitable again, just for a little while. He was lyin’ low for some reason, wouldn’t go into it. I didn’t ask. The second time—“ Lee chuckles to himself and for the first time, John notes the sadness in it. “Shoot. I guess you got it in your head that this is somethin’ more to do with him than me. But, no. Second time he came up, it was him payin’ me back.”

John swallows and his eyes flit to the upper corner of his HUD, where EOS has been patiently taking notes, filtering out bits and scraps of information as they become useful. “What do you mean? Paying you back for—“ It’s still hard to say it, still hard to believe it’s true. “—for helping him fake the crash?”

“Partly that. Let’s just say it was me cashin’ out on a lotta years worth of favours. Leave it there, Johnny.”

The question of just what Lee Taylor is doing on the moon, alone in an abandoned moon base prickles at the surface of John’s brain again and there’s a certain cold sensation down the back of his back, a certain gratitude that he’s been told not to press the matter. He’s staring at his father again, and it’s hard to think of anything else. “I don’t understand. You said he needed to lie low—why? I didn’t…know what to expect, when I came here, I—“

“Why _did_ you come here?”

John shifts, uncomfortable, and acutely aware that the circumstances of his arrival are probably cause for a fair amount of concern. He’d been too busy with his own discovery to even consider what he must look like from the outside. “It’s complicated. A lot happened and I just—I…needed to get out of the world for a while. I did something— _needed_ to do something—and now that I’ve done it, I’m just…sort of…drifting, I guess. God, I don’t know how much I should tell you.”

“You kill a man, kiddo?”

There’s a matter-of-factness to the way he says it; like it wouldn’t be a problem if John _had_. That’s what makes him blanch, and shake his head vehemently. “No! Jesus, no. The opposite. Exactly the opposite.”

“Mmm. Reservin’ judgment on a statement that cryptic. It’s some kinda crime, though?” 

John shrugs awkwardly. “Technically not. Nnn. No. No? A good lawyer could probably argue that it was nothing I did of my own volition? Except when it was. I don’t know, it was something like a hostage situation. How does intent figure into kidnapping?”

“ _Kidnapping_. Hell and damn, Johnny. Lacking a father figure as you do, I think I got a certain moral obligation to suggest that you ain’t supposed to kidnap people.”

“Oh! Uh, no. No, I was the one who got kidnapped, I guess. Kinda. I knew about it, I sort of let it happen. It wasn’t entirely my idea.”

Lee’s staring now, a little bit startled. “John. What the hell’d you do?”

Sheepish now, because he hadn’t realized just how it all sounded until he’d started to articulate it, John clears his throat and scuffs his boots on the floor a bit awkwardly. “I coded a program that gained sentience and tried to take over my space station. The GDF seized TB5 and pulled all its code and put her on a secured server, but I broke in and stole her back. Uh. The Hood helped, but I think he got arrested. They wouldn’t have gotten her in the first place if I hadn’t gotten malaria. Which the Hood got on my space station. Still don’t know how he did that, didn’t think to ask him during the whole kidnapping thing.”

There’s an audible click as Lee’s jaw snaps shut. He chuckles weakly, turns it into a hearty guffaw, and _then_ it’s a proper laugh, a hooting, howling thing that doubles him over, almost out of proportion to what he’s laughing at. When Lee regains his breath and masters himself, he manages to clap a hand on John’s shoulder. “God! And here I was thinkin’ I didn’t miss your dad all that much, I ain’t had anyone spit that much crazy at me since him and me were rocketin’ around the asteroid belt. Tell you what. Start over, and start at the beginning. You tell me what the hell brought you up here, Johnny, and I’ll tell you every damn thing I know about what your dad’s been up to. It ain’t much, less’n you probably deserve to know, but it’s all I got.”

John grins, a little bit embarrassed. “Well, that’s all I came for. Sounds like a deal. Really, it’s not only mine to tell, though.” He pauses a moment and then, “EOS? …I told you not to go poking around Uncle Lee’s systems, but you did anyway, huh?”

The screen, still displaying footage of John’s father, darkens to black. It’s replaced almost immediately by that familiar avatar, a ring of white light, pulsing slightly. Over the speakers, her voice is high and childish. “Well, I get dreadfully bored. Captain Lee Taylor. I am EOS. Your system calls itself Alphie. It’s a pleasure to make its acquaintance.”


	7. sideways meanings and double-talk

A week long sojourn at the pleasure of the Crown, in the courteous if spartan care of the Warders of the Tower of London, and Kayo had ceded fury in favour of icy calm. When it became clear that she wasn’t getting out any time soon, she’d channeled her frustration into sets and reps, stopping only to eat or meditate, working herself into fatigue to facilitate sleep. Regardless, the nights she’d spent in the cell had been spent lying awake on her narrow cot, mind whirling with betrayal and anxiety.

It had been a whole week before she had been free to go, and Kayo had expected to see Lady Penelope on the other side of the door when it finally opened. Instead there had only been one of the guards, complete with the quintessentially British affectation that, despite the fact that she’d been the one imprisoned, she had also somehow managed to overstay her welcome.

So Kayo finds Lady Penelope waiting for her at the end of a long hallway, with Parker at her elbow, looking cool and calm and expectant, as though it hasn’t been a week. As though Kayo hasn’t spent the entire time wondering what the hell is going on. Indeed, Penelope hadn’t even looked up when Kayo first caught sight of her, busied with her compact. Parker had needed to nudge her in the ribs to get her to glance down the hall.

Meeting Penelope’s icy blue eyes, all the fury Kayo had so successfully channeled into push-ups and squats and the bedrock foundation of the lotus position comes unbound at once. It takes a titanic effort not to duck past Parker and get into the Lady’s personal space, demanding answers. Instead, she stops short at the end of the hallway and settles for the first word of the conversation, “ _Explain_.”

“I do intend to,” Penelope answers, snapping her compact closed. If Parker’s body language changes in response to the aggression radiating off of IR’s security officer, it must have been pure instinct, because Penelope remains completely unruffled. “Can I offer you somewhere to shower and change?”

“I don’t want anything from _you_ ,” The word drips all the venom she’s stored up for this encounter, “beyond an explanation.”

Penelope inclines her head, eternally graceful, and turns to leave, clearly with the expectation that Kayo will follow. Kayo doesn’t, and stays firmly where she stands, arms folded across her chest, forces Penelope to turn and arch an eyebrow. “Coming?”

“I’m not going _anywhere_ with—“

“These really aren’t matters that can be spoken about publicly,” Penelope informs her, and it’s the way her tone stays perfectly even and cool only serves to irritate Kayo further. “There’s more at work here than you’re aware of, and I hope you’ll trust me when I say this has been in service of a greater good.”

Kayo prickles at the phrase and clenches her jaw, feels her fists tighten involuntarily. The temptation is to walk away, to abandon Lady Penelope and her _greater good_ and get home, back to the island and the boys and the questions that are sure to follow a week of her absence, completely incommunicado.

Except—at the end of the day, she and Penelope both work for International Rescue, and Kayo’s always liked, respected, and (though she’s beginning to think this may have been unwise) trusted Penelope. If nothing else, the London Agent never does anything without a reason, and the prudent thing would be to at least find out what it _was_.

So when Penelope shrugs and turns to leave again, Kayo follows. She catches up and trails after Penelope and Parker, who cut a tidy swath through the tourists and personnel milling around a prison they think no longer holds prisoners. Kayo’s acutely aware of the way she draws attention, in her obviously-paramilitary flightsuit, but she’s too angry to be bothered about it. Instead she watches Penelope, and the way she commands the sort of attention that runs off her like cool water—a shadow of a woman in a navy sheath dress, chic. The eyes that find her linger for only the barest moments, then move on for fear of being caught staring.

FAB1 is parked somewhere that most cars probably aren’t permitted to park, but that’s just a reality of the fact that Lady Penelope is on her home turf, and woe betide anyone who tries to tow a car with an onboard flamethrower.

Kayo’s comms haven’t worked since the cell door first closed behind her, and her flightsuit _feels_ like she’s been wearing it for a solid week. It’s possible she’s gotten used to the smell. There’s no comment from Penelope as the car doors close, but the windows are also opened a prudent crack. Lady Penelope’s comfortably settled by the time Kayo clears her throat. “Well?” she prompts, as FAB1 pulls away from the curb and merges into traffic. “You might apologize, at least.”

“Oh, I do. Unreservedly. I hope you’ll forgive me for the abruptness of my methods. It was necessary.”

“Why?” Kayo refrains from adding _and this had better be good_. Too much of a threat for what’s supposed to be polite company.

“I had something set in motion and I couldn’t risk your interference.”

There’s a hot rush of blood to Kayo’s cheeks, humiliation. She’s younger than Penelope and knows she’s less experienced. Their jobs are fundamentally different, and Kayo _knows that_ , but she’s not incompetent. She’s spent the entire week trying to figure out what could possibly have led Penelope to want to throw her in a cell—and abruptly one of her darkest suspicions resurfaces, a rising chill up her spine. “You…you didn’t _kill_ Ned? In the warehouse, you left him with Parker. Did you go back to—?”

Penelope’s laugh is silver and insulting. “Oh, no. I would have had Parker do it, in any case, but no. He was quite alive when we left him, he’d told us what he knew, and was of no further use.”

This isn’t much better, because Kayo’s second worst fear isn’t much better than the first. In the warehouse where they’d cornered the Hood’s right hand man, she’d watched—permitted—Penelope and Parker to go about the more sinister aspects of what they considered an interrogation. There’d been questions that had been unanswered the last time Kayo had followed Penelope from a building. Maybe Penelope had gone back and done whatever she’d needed to in order to get her answers. “…what did you have to do? To get him to talk, what did you do?” And then with her heart like lead in her chest, “What happened to Alan and John?”

“What I expected. Alan’s quite safe, Kayo, never fear.”

That answers only half the question, and though it’s a relief to hear, it’s not the greater half. “And John?”

There’s a distinct lack of concern in Penelope’s tone when she answers, “John’s vanished completely.” Before Kayo can even process this, the London Agent continues, “But EOS’ code has been wiped from GDF servers, your uncle was arrested in the middle of a GDF base in San Jose, and he’s made no demands for ransom or negotiated his release based on any credible threat to John. So as it stands—“ Penelope trails off and shrugs. “It’s entirely possible John’s left of his own accord.”

“…you don’t _believe_ that?” Kayo asks, stunned, and still mentally playing catch-up. She has to put a pin in the fact that the Hood’s been arrested for the more pressing question. “People don’t just _disappear_.” It’s not the sort of thing she should need to say to someone like Penelope. “What—how—how are the boys holding up?”

To her credit, Penelope lowers her gaze and sighs, shifts slightly. Her voice is softer, sympathetic, when she answers, “Poorly. There’s been very little to tell them, beyond my suspicion that John doesn’t want to be found.”

Kayo can’t help but believe that isn’t a good enough excuse not to find him. Her heart skips a painful beat and she has to force herself not to think about the rest of her brothers, isolated on their island, with no news, no concrete evidence of what’s happened to John. Scott must be frantic. A week with nothing to go on, and Gordon and Virgil will be curt, waspish, snapping and snarling at each other and anyone else who gets too close. Alan won’t be able to shake free of the fact that he was the last one to see his brother, and the guilt will be be tearing him to ribbons. Kayo can’t even begin think about their grandmother. “It doesn’t make any sense. John wouldn’t—even with everything he’s been through, he wouldn’t do that to his family. And he’s not—there _has_ to be some sort of trail.”

“Not that I can tell.”

An operative of Penelope’s calibre would surely have known exactly how and where to look, how to pick up the sort of trail left by someone who didn’t know how not to leave one. “John’s clever, I’ll grant you, but he’s not exactly been… _stable_ , lately. I wouldn’t have guessed that he was in the sort of state that would let him cover his tracks well enough. This sort of thing takes intent, resources— _planning_. You can’t really mean that he’s vanished.”

Penelope arches an eyebrow, though Kayo hadn’t meant to be insulting. “I haven’t found him.”

_Have you not_ **_looked_**? The question springs into Kayo’s mind, but doesn’t manage to make it as far as her voice. She’s suddenly aware of the way Penelope carries herself, the way she’s cool and relaxed, the way her gaze is fixed, focused. It begins to dawn on her that there’s a layer of meaning beneath the conversation, and she hasn’t been listening deeply enough. It’s a failing of Kayo’s that she prefers straightforwardness, has never excelled at deciphering sideways meanings and double-talk. The Lady knows more than she’s saying, and abruptly that’s plain in every aspect of her manner, an explanation of what’s happened so far. Something set in motion.

Kayo’s not sure she wants to guess what, straightening in her seat and really looking at Penelope, and cuts to the chase. “You gave him a head start,” she says softly. “You gave him a week. When you found out where he was, when you found out he’d left the island. I was there when—when Ned said the Hood was expecting him to make contact, you heard same as I did—and you got me out of the way.”

Penelope doesn’t answer, exactly, but her eyes light up, brightening as Kayo strikes closer to the truth, continuing—

“—you…you _wanted_ him to bolt? How could you know he’d do something so _stupid_ , to reach out to a man like the Hood? And you _let him_. You knew I wouldn’t let it happen, but _you_ did. _Why_?”

“I need him to do something that I can’t.”

It takes concentration, takes Penelope’s sort of clever subtlety, takes thinking around corners and careful observation of tiny hints and touches for Kayo to catch what Penelope won’t say outright. When she realizes what her brain’s snagged on, she can’t help but blurt it out, “ _Need_ him. Not needed him, _need_ him. You need him to do something. He hasn’t done it yet.”

And now a gracious nod and something that might be approval, like Kayo might have impressed her. Lady Penelope has trained since girlhood for this sort of game, been at it for far longer than Kayo has. At four years Kayo’s senior, even though their work is fundamentally different, Kayo’s grateful to have her to learn from.

Usually.

“You _do_ know where he is.”

“I _did_. I don’t know any longer. The last I saw of him was in Las Vegas. He could be anywhere by now.”

Staggered, Kayo can’t help but gape at Penelope. “Wh—what, _when_? When was this?”

“Just shy of a week ago. Six days.”

It’s not possible. No wonder Penelope wanted Kayo out of the way. It flies in the face of what Kayo knows about John and what she’d always believed about Penelope; that she would put the Tracys welfare first. She has to recap yet again to be sure she understands. “You last saw him in Vegas. You knew where he was and kept it from his family. You found out what happened to him in New Zealand, and _still_ you let him go.” 

“Yes.”

There’s something of the mastermind about Penelope, and Kayo’s unwillingly reminded of her uncle, in a way that makes her flesh crawl and her mouth taste bitter with the words she wants to say, the accusations of lying and betrayal and the “how could yous” running through her head. Instead, she sticks to the facts and tries not to let her feelings colour her words. She keeps her tone even and steady as she says, “He’s not in his right mind and I can’t imagine you don’t know that, so explain to me just what the hell you think you’re doing? What could you possibly need him to do?”

Those glinting blue eyes, cold and clever, all the facets of their sapphire surface hiding flaws that Kayo would never even have guessed at before now. “If I tell you,” she begins, “then I’ll need your word that you’ll trust me, and that you’ll believe me when I say that what’s at stake is more than you realize. Beyond that, the boys—Scott, Virgil, Gordon, Alan— _none_ of them can know. If I tell you, then it can go no further. You’ll have to lie to them. I have, and I know I have, and if you join me in this, then what I ask of you will feel like betrayal. You _must_ be able to understand that it’s for a greater good.”

Bitterness turns to dryness, as every accusation that Kayo wants to make is confirmed before she can make it. “You want my help. With whatever this is, your _greater good_. You want me to help you.”

A beat and then Penelope nods, and her voice is all honeyed sincerity—the kind Kayo no longer trusts—when she continues, “Yes. You would be useful to me, Kayo.”

The way she words it is what steels Kayo’s spine, hardens her heart, staring back at Penelope with eyes that finally see what she is. A spy and a liar, and someone making _use_ of Kayo’s family. “Like John’s useful to you. Because that’s what you’re doing, isn’t it? You’re using him. Whatever you claim you need him for, whether he’s safe doesn’t matter as much as whether he’s _useful_.”

The door’s already closing. Kayo can tell. Penelope’s just waiting for her answer, though they both know what it’s going to be. “He’s not stupid and he knows what I need of him. It’s not as though it wasn’t an agreement. Give him some credit. I trust him to look after himself.”

Kayo’s teeth bare at Penelope. “I don’t know what you think _your_ job is, but _mine_ is to look after my family. If that’s not what you’re asking, then my answer is _no_. I want to find John and bring him back. I don’t care if he’s run off of his own accord, I don’t care if there’s some greater good to consider, family comes first. I want this all to stop, I want him home and safe and I want things to go back to normal. I don’t know what _you_ want, but if you interfere with me again—“ Kayo stops, shakes her head, and pretends she has anything with which to threaten Lady Penelope, “—then we’re not on the same side any longer, and I’ll mark you down as just another threat to my family.”

If nothing else has been genuine, it’s hard to deny that the brilliant smile that answers this is anything but sincere. “I suppose that’s the second best answer I could have hoped for.”

“Yeah, well.” Kayo raps her knuckles on the partition that divides FAB1 and addresses Parker, well-aware that he’s been listening the entire time. “Sounds like this is my stop.”

“Thunderbird Shadow is quite safely in the care of RAF officers at Heathrow. If you take a cab, tell the driver that you hope it rains upon the changing of the guard, and the fare will be waived.”

Absent of cash and with every integrated system in her suit still non responsive, Kayo probably will, but it’s the last help she’ll accept from Penelope. Not that Penelope needs to know that. “I can handle myself.”

“I know.” 

Parker pulls the car smoothly to the curb and stops, circles around to open Kayo’s door. Kayo undoes her seat belt and fixes Penelope with a solid, challenging stare. “When I find John, I’m dragging him home by the _hair_ if I have to. I don’t care about your greater good. This is my _family_.”

And again with that silver laugh and sunshine smile, so out of place beneath those grey-blue eyes. “I would expect no less. I look forward to working around you. Take care of the boys. I would have been lucky to have you, but I suppose I’m glad that they were the luckier. Thank you, Kayo.”

Parker opens the door and in light of everything she’s learned about the London Agent, Kayo’s exit seems to call for something appropriately dramatic. Kayo wouldn’t ever admit to having anything in common with her uncle, but there’s a theatrical streak that runs a mile wide through the entire family. “Go to hell, Penelope.”

* * *

The car door slams and Penelope withdraws her compact from her purse again, doesn’t watch as Kayo vanishes into the crowd on the London sidewalk. She idly browses through some files, nothing of consequence, and doesn’t look up until Parker’s returned to the driver’s seat and lowered the glass partition. “More or less what you h’expected, m’lady?” he queries, as unperturbed by Kayo’s exit as his partner is.

“More or less. Perhaps more what I’d hoped than what I’d expected. A shame, in some ways, a relief in others. I suppose it’s going to have to be you breaking the Hood out of prison then, Parker.”

This gets a chuckle and a nod from the old criminal and a mischievous gleam in his eyes, pleased by the news. “More or less what I’d ‘oped, m’lady.”


	8. dilation of time around an absent family member

The second time one completely takes apart and reassembles a Thunderbird is less interesting than the first. At least if it’s the second time one’s done it in the space of a week.

Four’s really the only one of the ‘birds that can come apart and go back together in so short a span of time, but this second time around Gordon’s heart just isn’t in it. He’d only been trying to keep busy, trying to figure out how to fill the week that’s passed since Alan had first called from Auckland, worried about the fact that he hadn’t heard from John.

Usually the weeks are short. Usually thirty-six hour days chew through the span of a week in what amounts to no time at all, usually Gordon feels like he blinks and it’s Christmas. But now, sitting in the middle of a halfway dismantled engine, up to his elbows in grease and wearing one of Virgil’s borrowed coveralls, rolled up at the cuffs and with the sleeves folded all the way up past his forearms—it’s hard to believe it’s only been a week. And it’s hard to do anything but sit in the middle of a disassembled pump-jet, and wonder if life’s going to go back to normal any time soon, and whether the fact that this week is ending makes any difference at all.

A week hasn’t been this long since their father first went missing.

Of course, given the circumstances, maybe that makes perfect sense. Maybe the dilation of time around an absent family member is a universal constant, like gravity or the speed of light. Maybe there’s another fundamental force in the universe, quantified by loss. Maybe there’s a Nobel prize in it, figuring out the math around just how much time slows down when you’re wondering where the hell your brother is, whether he’s frightened or hurt or dead. Map it against the decaying function that asks the same questions about your father, the one that doesn’t slow time down outside of the minutes the thought of him creeps into, before it’s too easily dispelled.

But then, physics was never Gordon’s subject.

Was John’s, though.

 _Is_ John’s.

Of course, this is all John’s stupid dumb fault, and Gordon has to pick up and ferociously scrub at the already-clean-from-last-time head of a sparkplug to dissipate what’s probably an unjustified surge of anger. John’s gone and dropped through the fabric of the household, and torn a hole right through the center, so that reality gets pulled downward and warps around his absence.

John’s absence is nothing _new_ , but the circumstances around it—it’s just history repeating itself. There’s just nothing else _to_ think about, and Gordon can’t help wondering how the hell they all managed to stop thinking about their father.

Well.

They’d set a date, that was how. Six months after the crash, six months of ambiguity, and then—then Scott had said it was time to call it off. Up until that moment, Gordon had never believed there was really such a thing as _adulthood_ , up until the moment he’d seen Scott cross that line. That had been it, that’d had been the thing that—at the ripe old age of twenty-eight—had tipped the eldest firmly into the no-man’s land of adulthood, where the head of the household belonged, damned to fumble around like someone who’s expected to know what they’re doing. And the first thing Scott had said they were going to do was allow themselves to _stop_.

It had been a relief, in a way. Far from closure, sure, but permission to stop. Permission to stop hoping and start thinking about grief. It had been another thread that had wrapped all around and through the family, and drawn them all that much closer together. Just like Mom. Just like IR. Only with Dad, John had slipped the net. Ducked under the line and bolted.

There are pieces of his bird arrayed all around and though he’s only halfway done taking it apart, Gordon starts to fit things back together. It’s a little too hard to sit in the middle of brokenness and dissolution when the train of his thoughts has jumped the rails and gone careening towards one of those larger realizations. Epiphanies are the sorts of things Gordon never can quite find when he looks for them, it always seems necessary to stumble into them sideways.

Because John’s absence is nothing new. John’s absence is exactly what it’s always been, exactly the thing Gordon pegged him for three years ago; the complete and utter inability to process loss. The preference to vacate the planet instead. The fact that this isn’t John, being in trouble. This is just John being _John_.

It’s getting hot under the collar of his borrowed coverall, and he’s not getting any work done anyway. It might be time to hand reassembly off to MAX, and go track Virgil down.

* * *

There’s a whirr and a beep from MAX, and a little forward-reverse twitch of his tires. Flat on his back beneath the console in the cockpit of TB2, Virgil doesn’t look up from what he’s doing. What he’s doing is something he’s been putting off ever since it first became a problem—careful, fiddly rewiring of the underside of his control panel, trying to ferret out a wire that lights up his “check engine light” any time the starboard aileron adjusts beyond thirty-degrees out of neutral. “Yeah, MAX, I hear him.”

It’s not that there’s any particular trick to talking to MAX, or at least, Virgil’s never thought so. It just takes a certain sort of person to really _get_ him. Once you understand that MAX is just a device that reacts to every element of change in his environment, that his main function is to perceive and react to states of need—well. Having a conversation with MAX is mostly a sort of role play. He gets the personality you play to him, puppyish with Brains, solicitous with Grandma, efficiently buddy-buddy with Virgil, an extra pair of hands. And a set of sensors to pick up on the things that Virgil might want to know about, like his younger brother, rattling around in the cargo hold like a pinball in a machine.

Virgil and Gordon have a relationship that consists mostly of what goes unspoken. He couldn’t point to the moment when they’d first clicked together, when they’d become the pair who could work on a basis of wordless nods and action and reaction. Gordon just always seems to do what Virgil expects him to do, and vice versa.

When Gordon’s riled up about something, Virgil expects him to make a lot of noise. Just as a courtesy. Just forewarning the fact that something’s rattled his cage, and if Virgil’s not in the mood to deal with it, then to steer clear.

At the moment it’s not really a question of what suits Virgil’s mood, as much as it is the fact that if Gordon doesn’t blow off steam then he’ll explode in someone _else’s_ direction. And since Scott’s fraying at the edges and Alan’s a guilt-wracked basketcase—Virgil’s more than happy to take the hit.

Especially because Gordon’s got a tendency to say things he doesn’t actually mean. Mostly it’s the fact that he’ll stretch a truth or gild a lily for dramatic effect. That perfect opening line to any given conversation is one of Gordon’s biggest vices. So he’ll say things he doesn’t mean. Virgil’s got a knack for knowing what _was_ meant.

So when the blond comes up through the secondary hatch from the cargo bay, clearly with something on the tip of his tongue, Virgil carefully reattaches the wires he’d undone and slides out from beneath the console and sits up. Generally Gordon’s the one who starts these conversations, and true to form—

“I hope someone kidnapped him,” he declares, and flings himself bodily into the co-pilot’s chair. MAX looms in the space at the back of the cockpit, but his actuators still retract in on themselves and his whirrs and whistles take on a faintly anxious tone. But then, maybe Virgil’s just projecting. He waves MAX away, down the hydraulic lift into the cargo hold. Gordon’s eyes are bright and he’s clearly looking for a rise, so Virgil sighs and engages, gives the answer Gordon’s expecting—

“Why would you hope for a dumbass thing like that?”

Alan’s the only one still entitled to teenage melodrama, but when the mood strikes, Gordon still broods like a champ. He slouches in his seat, scowls blackly, and picks at the armrest of the chair, a spot of wear that he works at whenever there’s something on his mind. “Because we stand a better chance of getting him _back_ if isn’t that he just decided to take off. _Again_.”

“Again,” Virgil repeats, prompting for clarification.

Gordon shrugs, shifts his newly boneless body, and scuffs his feet on the floor. “Like after Dad.”

“ _You_ were the family runaway, Gordon. You ran away six times in two months the summer after Mom died,” Virgil points out, reaching for a rag for hands that aren’t actually dirty. “Tracking you down at the nearest gas station trying to hitch a ride across the country was still preferable to abduction.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t fuck off into orbit for _two and a half years_ because I process my emotions about as well as a _toaster_.”

“John’s been through a lot.”

This observation, admittedly rather trite, prompts Gordon to slam his workboots on the floor and sit up straight, glowering. “Yeah, and have you _ever_ seen him as messed up as this? Like, as _obviously_ not fucking okay as he was when he got home?”

Virgil shrugs and it’s a careful motion, the sort of I-don’t-agree-with-you-but-I’m-also-not-blowing-you-off type of shrug that doesn’t come off as too flippant or too indifferent. “John at his worst is still sharper and more capable than he gets credit for. If the biometrics Brains pulled off of Five are right, then he managed hurricane dispatch through the course of a hundred and four degree fever and _cerebral malaria_. You’ve got one more big brother than I have, maybe between the average of the three of us, the waters get muddy enough that you’re not impressed. But I’ve got Scott and I’ve got John, and I’ve been looking up to the pair of them for long enough that I’ve got nothing but faith in them both. John’ll be okay. Scott’ll keep us on track.”

Gordon, for as often as he says things that need to be translated down from high-drama, also occasionally says things that are uncomfortably perceptive. He narrows his eyes and says, “Don’t pretend like you haven’t been thinking about the last time you saw him.”

Virgil winces. It’s a nail through the heart of the truth. Because for all his faith in his older brother, it would be dishonest to pretend that he hasn’t been turning that last conversation over and over in his head—thinking about board rooms and bathrooms in New York, and about gin and tonics and whiskey and ginger ale and the fact that the last time he’d talked to John, he’d _tried_ to make it clear that all anyone wanted to do was help him. It’d be dishonest to say that he _hadn’t_ been worried about John, but it’s an easy enough lie of omission not to mention the extent. “Look, I’m not saying he’s in a good place, but you gotta understand; he’s lost somebody.”

“Some _thing_ ,” Gordon corrects, challenging, as though diminishing his brother’s loss will somehow make it justifiable to vilify his behavior.

“Some _body_ ,” Virgil counters. “It’s not about—look, it doesn’t matter what anybody else thought she was, doesn’t matter what the legal ruling might’ve been. EOS was important to him. EOS is gone. I’ve _never_ seen John care about something like he cared about _her_. Or _it_ , if you need EOS to be an ‘it’. But it’s not just that he’s lost her, it’s that he thinks he failed to _save_ her. That’s—we’ve all been through that. You weren’t in New York, he fought tooth and nail to get someone to listen to him about EOS. No one did. He’s allowed to grieve and grief looks different on John than it looks on me or you or Scott or anybody. If he needs distance to deal with this, then maybe he just did what he felt he had to in order to get it. Obviously TB5 wasn’t an option this time around. He handles things differently than any of the rest of us.”

“Yeah. _Wrong_ ,” Gordon scoffs, shakes his head. “You’re not seriously gonna point to John as the poster boy for knowing how to cope when life brings the heavy, because he _doesn’t_. He literally doesn’t. When Scott called things off, when we stopped looking for Dad—he bolted. He took off and did the equivalent of locking himself in his room, and he just never dealt with it. And now he’s doing it again, only _worse_.”

“That’s not what that was. There were reasons for that.”

“Well, it wasn’t _healthy_.” Gordon slumps in his seat again and the fingers that were picking the arm of the chair turn into a fist, thumping rhythmically on it. “Scott let him go. After we stopped looking for Dad. Scott let him go, and he was just _gone_ for two and a half _years_. Don’t you ever think about how messed up that is? Scott should’ve made him stay.”

Virgil shakes his head. “No. Would’ve been a disaster. Look, when we called off the search, John just—augh, Gordon. You think _this_ was scary, at least he’s still _functional_. Scott let him go because when we lost Mom, John shut the fuck down. _Completely_. Scott wasn’t gonna risk that again, and when John said he had to go—I mean, it was the right call. With Dad—do you honestly not remember? You’re acting like it was the worst thing he could’ve done, but _really_ think about it. D’you remember those first couple of months? When it was John _instead_ of Dad, making the calls? He dragged the rest of us out of a goddamn hole. If he hadn’t done what he did, we wouldn’t have pulled ourselves back together nearly as well as we have.”

“So you concede that he’s a goddamn emotional wreck, it’s just fine so long as it benefits International Rescue at large.”

This gets a sigh and a roll of Virgil’s eyes and an irritated growl that indicates Gordon _might_ be pushing it. “That’s not even _remotely_ what I said, but whatever you wanna hear, I guess.”

Gordon shrugs, undeterred from his interpretation, and reframes, “Fine, then you’re saying that even if he _is_ a goddamn emotional wreck, that’s what he _wants_ , and so none of us should do anything about it. And you’d still rather have _that_ version of John wandering around the world, incommunicado and apparently not interested in coming _home_.”

Well. They can both play this game. “If it’s of his own volition, then yeah. Because apparently _you’re_ saying you’d rather he was snatched off the streets in New Zealand, probably drugged and tied up and thrown in the back of a car. You’d rather someone sliced him open and cut out his GPS tag, ditched it in a garbage truck. You’d rather he was off somewhere, probably scared to death and alone and with no idea when—or _if_ —he’s ever gonna see any of us again, if we’re ever gonna figure out how to find him. And with no goddamn explanation of _why_.” He pauses, and then, pointedly, _Again_.”

Virgil can feel his tailbone starting to go numb, the pain of sitting on the hard metal floor starting to creep up the base of his spine. He hauls himself upwards and takes the pilot’s seat, lets his body settle against it. There’s a sort of perpetual tiredness that comes with worry, and attempts to fill time with busywork only seem to compound the problem. “Come on, Gordon.”

“Don’t ‘ _come on, Gordon_ ’ me.” But the vitriol’s gone out of it. It’s a last little flare of heat, muttered anger, quenched by the fact that Virgil’s maybe got the right of it. “What, I can’t be fucking terrified about our dumbass brother?”

Virgil laughs, short and a little sarcastic. “Our dumbass brother has two PhDs and is smarter than the both of us put together. And I don’t care what you think, I trust him to figure his shit out. He always has before.” Virgil sighs and stops caring about what Gordon wants or expects to hear. They’re both just scared, is really all it is. “Look, I don’t wanna believe that he’s shut up in a basement somewhere and that we’re just waiting for someone to ask for a billion dollars or the entire island or all six Thunderbirds and _Brains_ —or some awful bullshit like that. The only person who’s ever had a personal beef with our family is behind bars, and if the Hood’s the one who has him, then he’s not using him for leverage, and why wouldn’t he? Even Lady Penelope said, a week without any word from anyone—a kidnapper would’ve reached out by now.”

There’s always a point, in the conversations like this, when the whole thing turns and when Gordon starts listening instead of talking, starts taking things to heart instead of making broad, dramatic statements about things he doesn’t really mean. “Yeah, well. Maybe I don’t wanna believe he’d let us _think_ he’s been kidnapped. That he’d put Alan on the spot, _alone _, in Auckland, and he’d cut out and ditch his GPS tag, and he’d—_ god_. He’d put us through all of it, _again_.” There’s a big, heavy sigh and this is the tacit symbol that the fight is over. Gordon slumps in the co-pilot’s seat again, the way he never does when they’re working. “Maybe it’d just be nice if none of this bullshit had ever happened.”

“Yeah, I can agree with that.”

There are a few more moments of broody silence and then a different sort of sigh, maybe a little wistful. “I sure could go for pulling some people out of a burning building right about now.”

Virgil cracks a grin at this new overture and bats it gently back. “Mm. Too dire. Gimme a straight up automated industrial accident, no life and limb at risk. Just big, heavy clean up. Something to get my hydraulics into.”

“Bust a dam someplace. I wanna build some dykes.”

“Sinkhole beneath some remote facility, couple stranded workers.”

“Something in Antarctica.”

Virgil groans at that. “Fucking sadist, hell with you. As though the bastards down at Amundsen need anything else thrown at them, it’s the dead of winter. Something at the equator.”

“God, like it’s not hot enough. How about continental Europe someplace?”

“Boring. _Australia_ , there’s always something fucking up in Australia. Half the country’s perpetually on fire, the other half’s trying to rattle itself into the sea. And the population is like fifteen percent adrenaline junkies. Five leathery bastards stuck on top of a cliff or _caught_ in something, because _Australia_ , god bless ‘em.”

Gordon cracks a grin at this. “Aw, yeah. Something inland. Somewhere you can put down, but I still need to bring Four. Oh man, yeah, that’d be _perfect_. I’d love a pack of stranded cave divers, holed up in some secondary cavern with a nice windy approach and a high degree of difficulty.” He stops, suddenly remembering that he’s not actually able to go to the aid of a pack of wished-for cave divers. “Shit, except I took Four apart.”

“What, again?”

Gordon shrugs, sheepish. “I’m bored.”

“Well…”

“Well?”

Virgil shrugs right back, mirrors his younger brother. Maybe, even in spite of the fact that he doesn’t always mean it, maybe sometimes Gordon still says what needs saying. So. “Well, so maybe we go put her back together. And maybe we go talk to Scott about getting back to work.”


	9. rather go back to having heroes instead

The comm on Alan’s desk rings and despite the fact that he’s cried twice today, he still can’t stop the wildly hopeful flutter in his chest. He sits up in bed, throws the covers back, and imagines that it might be his brother.

It’s not. Even before he answers, the holographic ID is a picture of Colonel Casey. Why the hell Colonel Casey would be calling _him_ —

Except he doesn’t care enough to try and come up with a reason. Not really. There isn’t a reason. There’s no good reason. He’s the youngest and he’s _useless_. If he weren’t so young and stupid and useless, he’d have known better than to let John go and this whole thing wouldn’t be his fault.

Circumstances aside, he’d never felt more like he’d finally grown up than when he'd been facing his brother down on equal terms. Knowing what was wrong and _saying_ so, having Scott give him that squeeze on the shoulder, that nod of approval for finally getting through to John. They’ve all got their particular skills. Talents. Virgil can play the piano. Scott grills a hell of a steak. Gordon juggles. Alan _gets_ John.

Or he thought he did, anyway. 

But maybe he’s made an imaginary friend out of his brother, maybe Alan’s built him up into something he isn’t, actually. Maybe he’s fooled himself into thinking—being the only one with the means to actually _see_ John, since his self-exile into orbit—that he’d had some sort of special insight into the way his older brother thinks. He’d known enough about John to be able to tell that there was a void in his life, but EOS had been the one fill it. Alan hadn’t stepped up himself.

Maybe this whole thing is all his fault.

_Or_ maybe his brother’s just a fucking sociopath and Alan should’ve been the one to figure _that_ out, _before_ he’d been tricked into helping John ditch the relative safety of the island, and throw himself completely out of contact and into god-only-knows what kind of trouble. Doubt has started to undercut his faith in John and it _hurts_. If this is first real step towards adulthood, towards really being on the same playing field as the rest of his family; the recognition that they’re all flawed and fallible and human—Alan would much rather go back to having heroes instead.

The comm stops ringing and Alan flops back down, pulls the blankets back up and aggressively doesn’t care what Casey might have wanted. It’s nothing he can help with. Probably she was trying to get through to Scott and misdialed his extension. Maybe it’s news. Maybe it’s _bad_ news. Alan’s becoming intimately familiar with that twist of anxiety in his gut at the thought of knowing anything one way or the other, the way he wants to throw up every time he thinks about finding out what might have happened.

And then the ringing starts again. Alan sits back up.

The first time he’d credit a misdial or a wrong number, but the second—

From beneath the blankets, still in two-day-old pajamas, Alan worms his way to the bottom of the bed and from there can just reach the edge of his desk, to grab the little projector panel. He pulls it off the edge, catches it before it can fall, then retreats beneath the sheets and blankets and sits for a few moments in a little glowing-blue cave of blankets and, if he’s honest, body-odor. Marinating in guilt and self-pity tends to make one a little rank.

Thankfully holograms can’t smell anything. Alan picks up the call, cautious and deliberately unhopeful, “Aunt Casey?”

“Hello, Alan. Did I wake you?”

It’s the middle of the day, but this isn’t a bad guess, given the two-day-old pajamas and the way he’d missed the first call. Left to his own devices, too ashamed to talk to Scott and too wary to talk to Gordon and too sad to talk to Grandma—there’s a lot to be said for just crawling into bed, cocooning himself in blankets, and sleeping a week like this away. “No, ma’am.”

Alan’s still near enough to childhood that it’s sometimes hard to remember that she’s Colonel Casey first and Aunt Casey second. But her voice is still kind and gentle and she’s still the friendly, warm woman he’s always been fond of, and she asks, “How are you holding up, kiddo?”

This gets a typical teenage shrug, and the bare-minimum response, “Fine, I guess. M’okay.” He hesitates, remembering that this the lady who’d always had stickers and who flew a GDF helicopter and who had told funny stories about his dad. “I’m really worried about John,” he admits, hesitantly, as though this is a dire confession and not something the Colonel could guess.

“I’m sure you are.”

“I don’t know if I’m supposed to talk to you,” he hazards further, thinking about Scott and his week at TI’s head quarters, about scrappy legal battles and a lot of unkind muttering about the GDF. “I mean…I don’t know if…uh…like, if there’s anything I’m not supposed to say. I don’t wanna make a mistake.”

Aunt Casey’s always been a hard woman to read, but there’s something undeniably sad about her expression as she sighs, “Alan, I hope I haven’t done anything that’s made you feel like it might be a mistake to talk to me. I certainly didn’t call to try and press you for information. Is there anything I can tell _you_?” Her eyes flick down and then back upward, and Alan wishes there weren’t rocket ships printed all over his pajama pants, his knees drawn up to his chest. “I get the feeling you’re a little out of the loop.”

Alan shrugs awkwardly, rubs a hand through his hair and manages not to grimace at the way it feels greasy and grimy. As soon as this call is over, it’s probably time for a shower. “What happened with the Hood?”

“I wasn’t there,” Casey starts, as cautious as Alan is about rumor and hearsay, “Actually, I left right before anything happened. But from what I’ve heard, it sounds like some scheme of his went badly wrong midway through. He’d been impersonating a high-ranking Colonel, he’d walked right into a GDF base in San Jose. The investigation is ongoing and I can’t give many details, but suffice it to say, he’s safely in custody.”

“But he hasn’t got John.”

There’s a silence that’s maybe a beat longer than it should be before Casey shakes her head. “No, not as far as I’ve heard. I’m sorry, Alan. I know you’d rather know for certain where he is, but believe me it’s better that he’s not been abducted.”

Alan had been the only one to freak out, to completely _panic_ , when it had become apparent that John wasn’t where he’d said he’d be. When all signs had started to add up to another kidnapping (the fact that word _another_ can proceed the word _kidnapping_ where any member of the family is concerned is just mind-boggling), Alan hadn’t understood why they weren’t crying to everyone they knew for help. Why the entire world hadn’t been put into high-alert, why they weren’t combing the globe for their brother. The way Scott’s face had fallen when Alan first called home, hesitant and nervous and asking if anyone had heard back from John—

Returning to the island, there’d been sideways glances and unspoken doubts and it hadn’t been until the call was put to Lady Penelope that Alan had realized he was reading the situation differently than everyone else was. That the way things added up wasn’t what he’d thought it was. Penelope’s questions hadn’t been about suspicious interactions or potential kidnappers, but about John and his mannerisms and whether anything had been different about his behavior. She’d asked, gently addressing Alan specifically, if there was anything John had said or done that made it seem like he might be planning to leave.

“Would you mind if I asked you about how he’d been?”

The ice has been broken, and it doesn’t seem like the sort of question he’s not supposed to answer. It’s the sort of question he’s been asking himself for the past week, if there _was_ anything that should’ve tipped him off. “Dunno. I was kinda…it just, it seemed like he needed space, back when he first got home, and I didn’t wanna be annoying. I guess he was pretty upset. I didn’t know what to do, or if I should’ve…” Alan trails off and there’s that shrug again. “I don’t know.”

“He’d been through a lot.”

Alan nods, because this seems to be the thing that everyone feels is necessary to say. “Yeah.”

“How was his health?”

These are all questions Alan should have better answers to, these are all questions that should be going to Scott. But then, maybe Aunt Casey’s been as out of touch as he has, maybe she’s just as worried as anybody, only none of the family’s reached out to her. Maybe Alan’s the only one who’d even _take_ her calls. “Okay, I guess. I mean, he wasn’t sick anymore, not that I could tell. Brains was keeping an eye on him, and Grandma. Everybody, really. I dunno, Aunt Casey.” Alan’s arms wrap around his knees, pull tight to his chest. He pretends that the way his eyes are watering is just because it’s stuffy under the blankets. “I thought he needed my help. I didn’t mean to…I didn’t think he was gonna run off, or anything, I just—I wanted to help him.”

Casey’s voice is gentle, motherly. She’s got kids of her own, her youngest is Alan’s age, though Alan’s never met her. “You’ve got good instincts, Alan. If that’s your impulse, I’d trust it.”

“Yeah. Uh, thanks. I’m sorry, Aunt Casey, but I—umm. I should go,” Alan mutters, because there’s definitely the threatening pressure of tears, _again_ , and he doesn’t want to cry in front of Casey, Colonel or Aunt, motherly or not.

“Of course. Thank you for taking my call. And Alan?”

“Yes’m?”

There’s a pause, the sort of moment that shows Casey’s age, shows a sort of sadness in her eyes and a weight upon her brow. She clears her throat and the moment passes. “I hope this will all work out. And I hope you can trust me me when I tell you that I want to help John, too.”

* * *

It’s Dad’s phone on Dad’s desk and it’s ringing _again_ , because Alan’s not the only one who dodges calls. Same number. Scott’s sitting in Dad’s chair, leaning back with his arms folded, trying to talk himself out of picking it up.

Don’t talk to the press.

It’s rule one. Tracy Industries legal department said it. Penelope said it. _Grandma_ said it, and that’s the kicker. Grandma had said it with the sort of semi-sad, serious-faced wisdom with which she makes all her most important statements, and these are few and far between.

_Everyone_ knows it. Don’t talk to the press.

In fact, it had been Gordon who’d gotten the call the first time, and he’d picked it up, fumbled through a long-winded ramble of what amounted to “no comment” and then in a panic, had handed over Scott’s private number. But he hadn’t _said_ anything. He’d known better. Penelope had probably hammered that home, for Gordon. TI and Grandma had done the hammering for Scott.

And so the holocomm on the desk chimes again, and Scott knows who it is. Knows he’s not supposed to answer, knows that even if he _does_ , he’ll have nothing to say. Knows that if he really wanted to, he could call Brains up and have him block the call. Hell, he could probably do it himself.

But he doesn’t. And that little cascading chime just keeps falling endlessly. The woman on the other end of the line is a patient, patient person.

Scott’s not a patient person.

So the comm blinks on as he takes the call and Scott leads the conversation with, “We’re not talking to the press.” As though this will somehow shield him from the consequences of talking to the press.

Catherine Cassidy arches a slender eyebrow and dark eyes appraise Scott carefully from half a world away. “And why would you have any reason in particular not to be talking to the press?” she asks, in her voice of smoke and caramel, the more artful conversationalist of the pair of them.

Shit.

Scott’s no slouch though, and he’s learned a few things since things had first started to unravel, since not talking to the press had become standard policy. “Because the press ask tricky damn questions like that. Ms. Cassidy, I’m sorry and I don’t mean to be rude, but I really have nothing to offer you.”

Catherine’s not a woman who pouts when she doesn’t immediately get what she wants. She’s a woman who simply presses on, and _gets what she wants_. “Lady Penelope had led me to believe that a name drop would get me in your good graces. She also mentioned it might help that I was kind to your brothers on international television. Ten minutes of your time?”

“I’m sorry, but I really can’t oblige.”

“One question, then.”

Scott rolls his eyes. “One question. And I reserve the right not to answer.”

“Do you think it was the GDF who gave your brother malaria, or someone else?”

_Fuck_.

Don’t talk to the press. But don’t _hang up_ on the press, either, because who the hell knows what she’ll make of that. Don’t react, don’t say anything without thinking about it, don’t forget to kick Gordon squarely in the ass for handing out your personal number.

And throttle John, for telling _anyone_ that he had malaria. Because there’s only one place that information could’ve come from, and only one person who would’ve been vindictive enough to tell.

Catherine Cassidy is a patient woman, and she knows when she’s got an opponent pinned. “I’ll take your blank silence as an invitation to continue?”

“My brother had a heart attack,” Scott answers, and hopes he’s not damning himself with the lie. It makes his teeth itch to even _think_ it, but right at this second he wishes for a lawyer. For a whole _fleet_ of them. “I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but—“

“The source, naturally.” Scott would say there’s something of the shark about Catherine, only Gordon’s hammered it into everyone’s heads that sharks are utterly undeserving of their reputation in popular media and anybody who says a word against sharks within Gordon’s hearing gets an earful. Something of the wolf, then, or the tiger. Something with _teeth_. They’re pearly white, tinted blue by the hologram, but they flash as she smiles. “You’ll recall that even _live_ on international television, your brother categorically stated that he hadn’t had a heart attack.”

“We’ve got a submersible the same exact shade as your journalism, ma’am.”

She just laughs. 

Step One: Find brother. Step Two: Strangle brother. Step Three: Get the lawyers to cut a deal re: fratricide.

Scott’s not sure how to disengage, not sure how to do anything but carefully backtrack his way through the conversation and put up the appropriate shields. “I really can’t talk about this. Whatever John told you in London—“

“It wasn’t in London. Or, _he_ wasn’t in London. London’s old news.”

Step One is suddenly looking a lot more possible and Scott straightens in his chair, immediately tense, alert. “When was this?”

“Sunday.” The urgency in his voice must tell her more than she knew, because her eyes narrow expectantly. “Why?”

There’s a kick to Scott’s heartrate, the sort of spike he hasn’t felt since—well, since they were last looking for their _other_ absent family member. Cassidy ceases to be a member of the press, and becomes the last person who may have spoken to his brother. “We haven’t heard from him since…god, since last Friday. It’s been a week, and he vanished out of Auckland. Where was he, what did he want? Why the hell would he call _you_?” Scott pauses, swallows. “Was…was he safe?”

Cassidy’s eyes widen and there’s no longer anything predatory about her. “You haven’t heard from him. He’s missing?”

There’s another call coming in, from Colonel Casey, and it’s an abrupt reminder that Scott’s not supposed to be talking to the press, except _this_ member of the press seems to know something he doesn’t. He needs to talk to Penny, find out if Catherine’s someone who can be trusted. This is really the sort of thing Penelope should handle. “I…can I call you back? Or if you haven’t heard from me by the end of the day, please call _me_ back. I have to take another call, but if you know anything about where John is, I need to hear it. I don’t know what kind of story your after, but anything he’s said about the GDF—“

“I’m intimately familiar with the way the GDF operates, believe me.”

Scott grimaces. Whatever’s happened, whatever friction there is between his family and the GDF, he’s not about to feed a rumor that they gave his brother _malaria_. “Listen. John’s…he’s been through something extremely traumatic and I can’t honestly tell you that anything he might’ve said is credible. I don’t know what he told you, but I have to ask you to take into account the fact that he’s…god. He hasn’t exactly been himself, Ms. Cassidy, and I guess I hope you’d care more about his safety than you might care about his story.”

It’s a trick of Scott’s—one he doesn’t actually know he pulls—that his faith in a person’s better nature sometimes works against what they might want to do of their own accord. Catherine looks momentarily taken aback by the notion, but to her credit she regains her composure swiftly. “Of course, I certainly wouldn’t do anything that might threaten his well-being.” And then, perhaps as the opening overture of a bargain, “If he’s missing, of course I want to help you find him.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Your help would really mean a lot.”

It’s not apparent over a hologram, but Catherine’s cheeks colour slightly, as though Scott Tracy’s sudden and unwavering faith in her promise of assistance is something to be embarrassed by. “Of course. I’ll let you off the line and start to pull together my research.”

“Thank you.” Again, and sincere. “Goodbye, Ms. Cassidy.”

And then, “Hello, Colonel Casey.”


	10. the week they've spent in pieces

The center of the villa still has that gravitational pull about it. It’s different than it was, a force that draws everyone inward, rather than ordering everyone about their respective orbits, setting their optimal and appropriate paths. Lacking anything to direct the balance of movement, it’s no wonder everyone spirals towards the center.

It’s why Scott’s at Dad’s desk when he takes Casey’s call, though it’s come to his personal line. Further, it’s where Gordon and Virgil expect to find the eldest, after they’ve put TB4 back together and come to their own resolution about what they need to do. It’s where Alan heads after his shower, having pulled himself out of his cocoon and washed away the week that’s been, shedding grief and grime like a too-tight layer of skin. It’s where the alert flares up, from the central console, that Kayo’s making her final approach and has an ETA of ten minutes.

So the family meeting isn’t called so much as it coalesces, pulls together the fragments of the week they’ve spent in pieces.

Scott’s just disconnected the call from Casey when Gordon and Virgil come up from the hangars. Something about Scott’s expression prevents either of them from immediately engaging, and instead Virgil and Gordon drop into their usual places, sprawling out on couches and not talking about anything in particular until Scott seems like he’s ready to break the ice. 

Alan’s next, down from the bedrooms, and there’s something about his entrance that precipitates a bit of a double-take from Gordon and a quick once over, up and down and back up again, from Virgil. Something’s changed, the sort of thing only the people closest to him might notice. Scott doesn’t look up to see him enter, but he _does_ look up when Alan clears his throat.

“Colonel Casey called me,” he announces, and trots down the stairs to park himself in TB3’s bucketseat. “Wanted to know about John.”

“Yeah, I just got off the line with her.” Scott sounds a little hollow, a little blank. And then, vehemently, “ _Fuck_.”

This turns every head in the room, and gets Gordon to sit up and screw a fingertip in his ear, making sure he’s not hearing the outburst through a glob of engine grease. “ _Language_ , Scooter,” he responds, reflexively feigning shock and horror. “My delicate ears!”

There’s a half a bottle of scotch and glasses in Dad’s desk, and the thud of thick glass on the desktop has Virgil on his feet. “Scott, what is it?”

But it’s Alan who answers, “Something with John. Right? She wanted to know about how his health was, how he’d been acting.” Scott nods, and Alan continues. “It’s ‘cuz he didn’t get kidnapped. He _ran_.” A beat of silence and though he’s got all three of his older brothers staring at him like he’s a whole other person, there’s a grim satisfaction in the way he says, “And I bet I know where.”

Virgil sits back down as Scott splashes whiskey into a glass and takes a drink in lieu of answering. He glances back and forth between Scott and Alan, and then a little helplessly at Gordon, who’s only contribution is a bewildered shrug. “What’d she say?”

Alan scoffs, boosts himself in his seat so he’s sitting cross-legged. “Nothing to _me_. But—it’s EOS, isn’t it? It’s gotta be. He went after her. The GDF had TB5 and all its code, EOS included. He knew that. Casey’s calling us—calling _me_ about John. Either they caught him, or—“

“No,” Scott’s voice is raw, hoarse after a swallow of liquor that’s of an age with Virgil. “Nope. Haven’t caught him. Was there though. _Jesus_.”

“Was _where_?” Gordon demands, and for all his flippancy, he’s still a little bit angry, and his temper’s starting to flare up again. “What the hell—“

Virgil cuts in, all concern, “Wait, did she _see_ him? Is he safe, though, did she—what d’you mean, why would he need to be _caught_?”

Sometimes they all get out of sync, sometimes their wires get crossed. It’s not often. Probably this is the first time it’s happened in years. They’ve spent such a long damn time turning themselves into the well-oiled machine that is International Rescue, it’s taken a very particular sort of emergency to send them all tripping over each other.

Usually Virgil and Gordon finish each others thoughts, pick up half-completed sentences, instead of talking over each other. Usually Alan’s sitting perched on the edge of his seat, ankles dangling and legs swinging, waiting for what Scott’s got to say. Something’s turned the whole world upside down, if the youngest is speaking in the eldest’s stead.

If the eldest is downing a second glass from the all-hallowed bottle of Dad’s Scotch in the middle of the day—well, that’s a new one.

“I’m gonna kill him,” Scott declares, though probably that’s twenty-five years of age on McCallan’s finest talking.

“Oh good,” Gordon drawls, falling into a rare show of sarcasm, snagged between irritation and the need to lighten the tone of the room and the situation at large. “If he needs killing then at least that seems to imply he’s not _dead_. Good to know. Would’ve been nice to be in the loop on that one. _Thanks_ , guys.”

Another alert flares up in the center of the room. Thunderbird Shadow’s landed, and normally this is a fact that wouldn’t go ignored, but there’s an imbalance of information in the room and it needs to be corrected. Virgil’s still going doggedly at Scott, who’s pulled a sheaf of paper out of their father’s desk, and dropped back into their father’s chair, and might just be regretting his involvement with their father’s liquor. “Scott, what’d Colonel Casey tell you?”

“She thinks he was in San Jose,” Scott starts and then stops, swallows a bit thickly. “It’s all still classified, but he…I mean, if it _was_ him, she can’t prove it…she probably shouldn’t’ve told me. But that was where they got the Hood, and he had someone with him. He was impersonating a Colonel, had an assistant. Did that holograph—gram—face…thing, had GDF credentials. Could’ve been anybody.”

“It wasn’t _John_?” It’s a rhetorical question from Virgil, but the sort of tone that wants desperately to be a statement of fact. “He can’t have been—but if that means the Hood had him—in San Jose? What the hell’s in San Jose?“

“Fantastic damn surfing, but not _John’s_ kinda surfing.” Gordon again, and he goes ignored.

Alan’s the only one who doesn’t seem surprised by this notion, Alan’s the only one who’s taking this without flinching, but then, Alan’s always gotten John better than anyone else does. He folds his arms and leans back in his chair. “It’s where EOS was. Silicon Valley, GDF’s tech HQ. It makes sense.”

There’s a short bark of laughter from Gordon and he’s fallen back to lie flat on the couch again, rubbing his eyes with his hands and leaving black smudges on his cheekbones. “This is crazy. Hell, _she’s_ crazy—”

“Shut _up_ , Gordon,” Virgil warns, respect and deference to their surrogate Aunt still firmly in place.

“Hey, I call ‘em like I see ‘em. Some random-ass henchgoon of the Hood, and for no damn good reason she thinks it’s John? _Crazy_.”

Scott shakes his head and he’s still a little wild-eyed at the notion. “She hasn’t got any proof,” he says again, as though that’s important. It’s possible he’s making a mental note to tell the lawyers, later. “What she’s got is circumstantial, there’s nothing _conclusive_ —“

“What _has_ she got?” Virgil prompts again.

Three hundred pages of John’s thesis thud on the desktop with Scott’s hand on top of them. “She talked to the guy. The Hood’s attache or whatever, she says they talked. Didn’t look like John, didn’t sound like John, but then, it’s been a long time since she’d heard him in person. Just—she told me that some of what he said was just—it fit. With everything. And then—“ In spite of it all, and maybe because it’s the sort of madcap, ballsy thing his dad would’ve been impressed by, too, Scott laughs. “—then he emailed her the title of his thesis. Made it clear she should give it a read.”

“When the hell _was_ this?”

“A week ago.”

From Kayo, now, up from the top of the stairs, still in her flightsuit and a sight for sore eyes. It’s typical of their surrogate sister, that she’ll be incommunicado for weeks on end, doing whatever it is she does. When she reappears, it’s generally with very little fanfare. She’ll slip into the lounge to sit in on a briefing, greeted with nods and waves and “welcome backs”. Or she’ll just sit down to dinner like she’s been expected, and no one acts like they’re surprised to see her when she asks if someone would pass the salt. This is the closest she’s come to recent years to making an entrance, standing at the top of the stairs with all eyes on her.

 _Expectant_ eyes, no less, hoping that this piece of information means she’s been on the trail the whole time. But Kayo sags slightly under the weight of four hopeful stares, and shakes her head. “I didn’t find him,” she admits. “But there’s a reason why.”

“He doesn’t wanna be found,” Alan states. Technically it’s a guess, but he makes it with the sort of grim conviction that makes it sound like a matter of fact. Alan’s always known John best, after all. If anyone could work out what he might be thinking, it’s Alan.

Kayo nods and her steps down into the lounge are uncharacteristically heavy. She drops into the seat next to Alan’s, perhaps seeking closeness, another rarity. Her expression is just as sombre, but where Alan’s got an air of restrained ferocity about him, Kayo just seems tired and sad. “No, I don’t think he does. There’s more to it, though, and—guys, it’s not good news. I don’t even understand it myself yet, it just doesn’t make any _sense_ —“ She shakes her head, bites her lower lip and glances around the room, can’t seem to hold anyone’s gaze until she catches Gordon’s. “You won’t want to believe me.”

This is ominous enough to change the tenor of the whole room, to dissipate some of the mounting frustration with the bits and pieces of Scott’s paraphrased conversation with Casey. Maybe it’s the way Kayo’s looking at him that has him break the silence. Gordon chuckles to himself from the couch, kicks his feet up on the arm of it and puts his hands behind his head. “Hell, Kayo, pile it on. Seems like today’s the day for it.”

Kayo doesn’t know what’s already been said, she’ll need to be caught up. She’s already decided to go for deliberate understatement, trying not to ruffle too many feathers with the suggestion that Lady Penelope’s not to be trusted. _Understatement_ is an understatement. She’s gone for deliberate obfuscation, she’s going to need to warm up the crowd before she tells them the truth—that Penelope’s up to something. Whether it’s actively harmful to her brothers, that’s up for debate, but she’s definitely got something to do with keeping John away from his family.

She takes a deep breath, steels herself, and then, “I don’t know if we can trust Penelope.”

The statement falls flat into the center of the room, greeted with four different flavours of silence. Kayo regrets it immediately, wishes she’d taken a stronger tone, been firmer in her conviction. _We can’t trust Penelope. She shut me up in prison, she’s lied to all of us, she’s always known more than she’s said. She says it’s for some greater good, but she’s using John to achieve it. And oh my_ **_god_** _she knows you won’t believe me._

Alan’s right beside her and Kayo finds herself remembering the last time they’d both been sat here, the last time they’d launched together, taking TB3 up to TB5, right at the very beginning of the whole mess. Alan had been grim then, too, alarmingly adult for his nineteen years. Alan seems like the safest person to look at, so she glances at him instead of the elder three, and is comforted by the fact that he doesn’t look like he thinks she’s lying. It’s reassuring and some of the tension starts to go out of her, she starts trying to think of what to say next.

“What do you mean, Kayo?” Scott’s finally pulled himself away from their father’s desk, and he takes the steps down into the lounge proper, parks himself next to Virgil, his accustomed place. He hasn’t rejected the idea outright either, and he won’t, he’ll hear her out. So will Virgil, but looking in his direction and watching the middle child frown and fold his arms, it’s plain he’s anticipated the same problem she has, when it comes to anyone who might have a word to say against Penelope.

Blond, stubborn, and a hundred and forty-five pounds worth of not-so-subtly-in-love with Penelope, Gordon laughs, rolls his eyes, and thinks he gets it. “Oh man, Kayo. _Hah_. No, I know exactly how you feel, it’s just—you spent the week with her, huh? Seeing her do her thing, seeing her pull all the strings. Right? Gives you a real funny feeling about the fact that that’s her _job_ , all that lying and double-talk and—“

Kayo swallows and shakes her head. “No, not that. She shut me up in the Tower of London for a week.”

Sometimes Kayo thinks she should carry a pin to drop, with the sort of stunned silences she can get out of her brothers.

And then, hastily, before any of them can fully parse the notion, she continues, “She wanted to keep me out of the way, give John a head start. I don’t know why. When she let me out, she said she knew where John was. The last she spoke to him was in Las Vegas and he’d been in San Jose before that, and he’d been caught up with the Hood, somehow. She knew all that. She wouldn’t tell me what he was doing—or…or she _would’ve_ , but only if I’d gone along with what she’d wanted and gone on to lie to all of you about it. I wasn’t going to do that. I know it doesn’t make any sense, I should’ve stayed to find out more, but I…god. I just wanted to come home.”

Before there’s enough space to want to drop another pin, Gordon laughs again. It’s starting to grate on Kayo’s nerves, and she’s only been back for five minutes. “Oh, _good_. So _you’re_ crazy too.”

She must flinch visibly at the biting, acidic sarcasm in Gordon’s tone, because Alan puts a hand on her shoulder and glares at the other blond in the same moment that Scott snaps, “ _Gordon_. Outta line.”

“Well, _what_? Penny wouldn’t—“

Virgil interrupts, “Let her explain, Gordon, clearly we need the whole story.”

“Doesn’t sound like _she_ has it; sounds like _she’s_ making shit up and blaming Lady Penelope for the fact that they didn’t find John. Who, incidentally? Is _also_ fucking _crazy_.”

Kayo’s not phased by Gordon’s tantrums, fits of anger and frustration. Gordon says things he doesn’t mean, everyone knows it. What twists in her gut is worry for him, sunny and sweethearted and _trusting_ , when he’s not actively being a jackass. And totally, completely smitten with someone Kayo _knows_ he can’t continue to trust. So her tone is even and she keeps her temper when she answers, “Gordon, I really think you want to get over her. I mean it, she’s lied to you. To all of us, to the whole family.”

Gordon’s eyes narrow and he hauls himself off the couch. He’s always come up just shy of six feet tall, always been just that little bit self-conscious about his height, but he’s drawn himself all the way up to glare down at her. “Yeah, huh? Seems like you got a _way_ longer history of lying to this family than Penny does, so maybe I don’t really _want_ your advice on the subject.”

“ _Hey._ ” Alan’s on his feet, glowering across the room at Gordon. His fists are balled at his side and he practically growls when he says, “You take that back.”

“Oh my god, Alan, sit down. You look like an idiot.”

Alan’s anger usually looks sullen and pouty. He can’t help it, he’s got a baby face. The drop of his brows and the jut of his lower lip only really ever serve to puff his cheeks out like a chipmunk and the way he tends to fold his arms across his chest tends render whatever he’s mad about the subject of a tantrum. Not now, though. Now he’s set his brows and clenched his fists and he’s tall (though still shorter than Gordon) and straight and righteous and sticking to his guns. “Just because _you_ don’t understand someone,” he declares, “ _doesn’t_ make them crazy.”

It’s not clear whether it’s the truth of the statement or the fact that _Alan’s_ the one making it that shuts Gordon up, if only for a moment. Virgil’s already shifted on the couch, poised to intervene, if this turns into one of the shouting, shoving, _screw you_ type fights that one gets into with Gordon when he’s in a scrappy mood. But, temper or not, Gordon’s not stupid, and when a quick inventory of the room turns up absolutely nobody on his side—he backs off. “…whatever, Alan.”

There’s nothing any of them might drop to make the ensuing silence any less awkward, but Virgil clears his throat and wades in anyway. His tone is gentle but firm when he makes the suggestion, “Hit the showers, Gordon. Cool down, get your head on straight, we’ve got a lot to talk about.”

“Fuck _off_ , Virg.” But he doesn’t mean it. This is one of those very particular sentiments that undergoes a midair translation between the two of them, and actually means “Yeah, okay, you’re right.” But Gordon says a lot of things he doesn’t mean and especially when he’s feeling attacked and frustrated. He storms out of the room without a backward glance.

The acoustics in the villa are excellent, and everyone waits for the distant slam of a bathroom door before it seems safe to resume. Virgil reaches for a control beside his chosen place, and brings Brains up on the center console. The engineer looks up at the call and gives a little wave in greeting. “Yes?”

“Hey Brains, can you, uh. Can you block any calls from the Island to Lady Penelope and vice versa?” It’s a weird request, but far from the weirdest Brains has been given. “I’ll fill you in later.”

Brains’ brow furrows slightly, but he doesn’t press for an explanation. “C-consider it done,” he answers, and then signs off.

“Good call, Virg.” Scott clears his throat and looks over at Kayo with a bit of an awkward shrug, apologetic. “Sorry about him. Gordon—well, you know Gordon.”

Kayo nods, but she’s still watching Alan, standing in the middle of the room. “It’s okay. I didn’t think any of you were going to take it well.” She shrugs and repeats her earlier statement, “It’s not good news.”

Scott’s answering laugh is hollow and tired, “No, we’ve been coming up kinda short on ‘good news’, lately. Gordon’ll…I mean, he’ll come around. It’s been a rough week, but I guess…well, now we’ve got information, at least.” Scott runs a hand through his hair and sags slightly. “God, I wish John was here. I don’t—like, I don’t even wish he wasn’t _missing_ , it’s just, if I had to pick somebody to pick through this goddamn snarled up mess of half-rendered chunks of data from assorted sources of varying credibility—“ He heaves a sigh and shakes his head. “Fucking _John_. Crazy’s maybe a little strong, Al, but you’re right about one thing. I don’t know if _any_ of us understand him. Gordon’s odds aren’t better than any of ours.”

Virgil shakes his head and hunches over, rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands. “We’ve _gotta_ get back to work, Scott, or he’s just gonna to blow up. Probably all over something of _mine_ and I’m not really interested in scraping charred bits of Gordon’s damage off of anything I value.”

“Yeah, I feel that.” Scott doesn’t know it, but it’s Gordon he echoes when he says, “Man, it sure would be nice to just…oh, I don’t know, a nice earthquake somewhere. Or anything, really. God, I’d love to track down an airliner with a system-wide nav failure.”

“ _Can_ we get back to work?” Alan asks, still in the middle of the room, with his gaze fixed on the central console. He looks over at Virgil, gestures at the the central display. “Hey, pull Brains back up. I wanna talk to him.”

Scott shrugs. “I’d have to talk to legal. Contract work, maybe. I don’t know if we can do anything under IR’s flag right now, I don’t know how we’re fixed with the GDF. We’ve gotta…god. I don’t know. I don’t know how we’d do it without dispatch, either. I guess I could probably run things from the ground, but—“

“What if I did it? What if I went up and took over Thunderbird 5?”

Brains appears in the center of the room, in time to find everyone staring at Alan, and misinterprets this as everyone staring at _him_. He blinks at his audience and nervously adjusts his glasses. “I-is there s-something in my teeth?” he queries.

Alan turns and suddenly everything about his bearing makes sense, the change in his attitude, the way he’s come to a resolution. “I wanna go up on Five,” he announces, and then continues as though this is what he’s been waiting to tell everyone, “I’ll take TB3 and just leave it docked. If I need to go out on call, I’m ready, but we all know I go out less than anybody. Kayo can swap in as Gordon’s alternate, or partner up if we need both pods. I’m not saying I can pull off John’s level of dispatch, but I’m already rated and trained for space ops. We can get back off the ground, at least, I can work up into the big stuff.”

It’s clear a lot of thought (or at least, a long shower’s worth of thought) has gone into this, and no one wants to shoot Alan down, so it falls to Scott. “Al, TB5’s…I mean, it’s empty. There’s none of the software onboard, it’s just a shell.”

“John backed up his systems every time he did a broad reformat. Brains, we’ve got a copy of TB5’s OS, right?”

Brains blinks and his hands are already skittering over his keyboard, plumbing through the depths of the island’s meticulously ordered servers. He’s not immediately dismissive, but thoughtful as he nods slowly, “Y-yes. Yes, we do.”

“So load it back up, and teach me how to use it.” Alan’s eyes glint, determined, and he turns to Scott, “I dunno what Casey told you,” he leads, “But I kinda think maybe _we_ wanna find John before anybody else does. We haven’t got Penelope—okay, so that sucks, but we’ve still got one of the most powerful space stations in orbit, and…well, we’d be stupid _not_ to use it, right? We’ve got something that’s _meant_ to help people, and we all know John needs help. We’re not just letting him go.”

“No, we’re not,” Scott agrees, but thoughtfully, like he’s really considering it. Like he’s seeing Alan in the new light he’s trying to step into. “We can talk about it. If the reality is that he’s taken off of his own accord, regardless of what he’s gotten himself mixed up in—if he doesn’t wanna be found…well, then our options are pretty much wait for him to screw up, or wait for him to get lonely.”

“So, what, maybe six years from now,” Virgil surmises, but he’s got a ghost of a hopeful smile, and it materializes into a grin at Alan across the room. “Hell with that. Boot up the world’s most powerful search engine and run a search for ‘John Tracy’, hey, Al? Make sure the safe search is on, kiddo.”

“Aw, shut up.” Alan grins back, almost shyly, like he hadn’t actually thought he’d be taken seriously. “It just makes sense. If anything can find John, it’s TB5.”

Kayo gets to her feet and joins Alan at the central console, puts an arm around his shoulders. Of the three of them, it might just be possible that she’s the proudest and most pleased with Alan, for deciding what needs to be done. “If any _one_ can find him,” she says, touching her fingertip to his chest, before going in for a real and proper hug, “it’s _you_.”


	11. white-hatted roguery

**JAMES GABRIEL TALBOT**

70 Amherst Street  
Cambridge, Massachusetts 02142  
jgt@jamestalbott.com  
1-860-555-0158

**OBJECTIVE**

To obtain a security consultant position with Nose Electric Railway Co, in order to make use of specific knowledge of system vulnerabilities, as pertain to current software standards aboard commuter trains.

**EXPERIENCE**

__**Bassinger Security Systems Ltd  
Boston , Massachusetts              
February 2058 - May 2060**

_Lead Security Analyst_

  * Provided complex analysis on security data to discern and identify significant activity.
  * Developed, implemented, managed and maintained procedural standards to ensure the integrity of information systems and data.
  * Monitored system traffic in order to gain information about the operandus of known malicious actors and thereby develop countermeasures against threats and incursions of this kind.
  * Communicated clearly with client/vendor regarding details of cyber-security incidents and ensured satisfactory understanding by both parties.
  * Maintained relationships with cyber intelligence analysts conducting threat analysis operations and managed numerous IT professionals performing varying technical roles within the client organization.
  * Monitoring security patch levels of the servers, workstations and network environments, and anti-virus systems.
  * Made recommendations to senior management regarding ongoing investigations and with regard to results of analysis, and worked closely with other departments to refine and enhance security measures.



__**RedPocket Security  
Cambridge , Massachusetts              
October 2054 - January 2058**

_Cyber Security Analyst_

  * Conducted data leak prevention (DLP), ensuring company sensitive and critical information did not leave the network.
  * Monitored IT defense perimeter and scanning infrastructure, taking or recommending appropriate action per set procedures when. Reported incidents to appropriate Tier 2 or Tier 3 teams to determine any increased risk to the company and/or its clients.
  * Processed intelligence reports through analysis of intelligence reports and briefings from various sources and documented indicators of compromise (IOCs) in company database.
  * Responsible for handling the Intelligence and Email Operations for the SOC while maintaining proficiency of adversary tactics, techniques, and procedures (TTPs) through analysis of email headers, malware analysis, and open source intelligence.
  * Possess the ability to read and understand system data including but not limited to security event logs, system logs, proxy and firewall logs.



**EDUCATION**

**_Princeton University_  
Princeton, New Jersey            
June 2052  
Bachelor of Science in Computer Information Systems, GPA 3.7**

Honors:

  * 2051 Moses Taylor Pyne Honor Prize, the highest general distinction conferred on an undergraduate.
  * PLDI 2051 Best Paper Award
  * IEEE student travel grant for INFOCOM 2050, Turin, Italy, 2050
  * International Mathematical Contest in Modeling(MCM), Meritorious Winner, 2051



**SKILLS**

  * Doxy, Doxy-X, Doxy-X#, and FRT
  * Regent+, Blackscript, Quotid, and Fringe
  * Assembly language & disassemblers
  * Regular Expression (regex) skills
  * Network protocols and packet analysis tools
  * Firewall and intrusion detection/prevention protocols
  * Database modeling
  * Open source applications
  * Cryptography



**LANGUAGES**  
English, Japanese

**AFFILIATIONS**

  * The Japanese Railway Society, US East Coast branch, Secretary
  * North American Cryptography Association, Member
  * The Mathematical Association of America, Member



**INTERESTS**

  * Cryptography
  * Linguistics
  * Model Trains
  * Trainspotting
  * Railway Systems



_References are available upon request._

* * *

There’s a certain sort of person who gets obsessed with trains.

This sort of person is typified in James Gabriel Talbot, tall, bookish, and sitting expectantly in the office of the human resources director for Hankyu Corporation, the regional headquarters in Inagawa City, as though the resume glowing off the screen of the tablet between them is all that needs to be said. The interviewing director is almost a little bemused by him, all bright sincerity, clearly waiting to be asked the sort of questions that one is asked at job interviews.

“Mr. Talbot,” the director hazards in exquisite English, beginning a delicate conversation, “My sincerest apologies for the misrepresentation of the solicitation to which you’ve replied. Your qualifications are excellent and very impressive. However they are also irrelevant to the position for which we are currently hiring.”

Mr. Talbot isn’t dissuaded in the slightest, if anything, he brightens slightly. “Oh, no, I know that. I just needed to get in the door.” He pushes silver-framed glasses up his nose, the bridge clicks against a piercing between his eyes. He reaches across the desk to retrieve his tablet. “I’m actually here on vacation, taking some time off between consulting jobs, and just bouncing around whatever train lines catch my interest. I’m a bit of an enthusiast.” He shrugs, modest, and grins the sort of boyish grin of someone who’s gotten away with something. “Well, that’s an understatement. Bit obsessed, I guess. My dad brought me to Tokyo on a business trip when I was nine, and I got a little bit hooked on the rail system, and just never quite got over it. You’ve got some _glorious_ trains.”

The director inclines her head, graciously accepting the compliment, though it’s come bundled up in the sort of inane, friendly chatter that’s all-too-typical of Americans, and tends to obscure the main thrust of their conversation. “We are of course very flattered by your interest, Mr. Talbot, but I remain uncertain of the relevance.”

“You can call me James, if you like.” James splays his fingers across the tablet in his hand, flicks through several screens of data. He finds what he’s looking for and with a twist of his fingers, pulls it up to project as a hologram. “I was on the Inagawa line, up from Osaka.” He hesitates for a moment and for the first time since he’s arrived, looks a little doubtful. “If you’d like to call the police once I’ve said what I’ve got to say, I’d certainly understand. I hope you don’t, though. I didn’t mean any harm.”

“Your pardon, Mr. Talbot? Why should the police be called?” Beneath her desk, the HR director is already keying in the first digits of the code to call security.

Mr. Talbot laughs, perhaps a little nervous, now. “I know it’s not really usual or expected—or, or well, even _permitted_ , I guess—for passengers to go poking around the mainframes of the trains. Just—well. It’s a hobby of mine, and these systems, you know, they’re absolutely fascinating. The programming standards are all sorts of different flavours, and I just happen to carry around the sort of tech that cracks them open. I get a bit obsessed, like I said, and I wasn’t looking to do anything more than see what was under the hood.” He grins again, still nervous, as though he’s made some private joke. Then he clears his throat and continues, “—Anyway. I was just curious to have a look at the system from the outside and I found my way to a backdoor that could…well, if someone malicious came along, it’d be a _disaster_ , is what I suppose I mean.”

This is a job for security, but perhaps not for the sort of security the director’s thinking of. Still, she finishes inputting the code and prompts Mr. Talbot to continue, “This is highly irregular. Our policies forbid passengers from using the provided network connections according to the terms agreed to in the associated contract, made upon connection.”

“I’m very sorry for the intrusion,” he answers, nominally contrite. “As strictly technical point, though, I didn’t use the publicly provided network. I breached the secured network, the one that transmits the train’s data. _That’s_ a whole other set of exploits, and another kettle of fish. No, I left a note about _that_ for the sys-admin.”

This is ominous, and his fingers trail through the system map he’s made available, hazy and blue above the director’s desk. He pushes his glasses up his nose again and he starts to talk, his voice running and rambling away from him as he details what he’s discovered, “This, uh. This is the control framework for the train I took here. I’ve highlighted a few places where vulnerabilities exist. I honestly wouldn’t have found it if I hadn’t come across something similar in a different situation, so there’s _that_ , at least. The software your engineers run is written in an older version of a language that _used_ to be the industry standard, and sometimes system wide upgrades can strip out existing functionality. I think that might be what happened here. Now, I’m not saying it’s the sort of thing just anybody could happen across. I’m—well, I mean, not to be immodest, I’m pretty specialized as far as skills and interests go. Speaking strictly in terms of risk-assessment, it’s not necessarily a high priority. I’d, uh, I’d tighten up your network before I did anything with the software itself.” 

He clears his throat again, seems to realize he’s rambled a bit and is being stared at blankly by the sort of person who probably doesn’t take a great deal of interest in the sort of software protocols that exist aboard trains, even if they’re trains that belong to people she works for. Maybe a little sheepishly, he puts the tablet back on the desk and pushes it towards her. “Anyway, I wrote up a report about it, but my Japanese isn’t the best, so I hope it’s clear. I modeled a few potential solutions, but I’d need to know more about your infrastructure and budget to really recommend a proper fix. You’ll probably want to forward it to your head of digital security. And, uh, and here’s my card, if they have any questions for me.”

“Thank you, Mr. Talbot. Your courtesy is appreciated.” The director takes the tablet and politely glances through the report, though it’s far less legible than his resume, at least to someone with no programming experience. “I will make very sure it reaches the proper channels. 

It’s the sort of report a security consultant _would_ make, being that this is what James is. Or at least, it’s what it says on his card. The paper trail of his resume will track back through an employment history that does nothing but recommend him. Any references asked for will be given, and they’ll all say the same thing. James is conscientious, thorough, and a determined analyst, a problem-solver to his very core. The HR director can’t read it, but the report James presents certainly _looks_ as though the problem in question is a native flaw, and not a deliberate attack, engineered from the outside by someone who finesses his way into systems all the time and knows how to cover his tracks. 

The HR director is already making a mental list of reports that will need to be filed, supervisors who will need to be notified, steps to be taken. It’s not really her department, but her business _is_ with people, and this is certainly a curious sort of person, this very earnest, very helpful young man, who found a problem and wanted to fix it. On an impulse, she cancels the call to security. It had been flagged at a low-priority, anyway. After all, sometimes there are people in the world who are just helpful. It’s entirely too cynical to believe that a stranger couldn’t—out of the kindness of his heart, or out of a need for correctness and a desire to fix mistakes—find and point out a flaw with no ulterior motive.

There’s a certain sort of person who believes in coincidence. Of the two people in the room, only one of them does. James, a perfect storm of hobby, expertise, and a minor streak of white-hatted roguery, has no reason to believe in coincidence, and is perfectly guileless when he asks, “By any chance, ma’am, and of course I understand if you can’t tell me, but—have there been any breaches your systems before? Just, if it’s happened through a series of errors that can be replicated, it might help to start there.” 

He doesn’t notice the way the HR director freezes slightly in her chair, remembering an exit interview with a badly disgruntled test-engineer, and just what had been necessary to get him to sign the correct forms about non-disclosure surrounding the exact sort of incident that this bluff, red-headed American is probing towards.

But of the two people in the room, the HR Director is the one who believes in coincidence. It’s at the end of a long pause when she answers, “I regret to tell you that incidents of this nature are not something I am permitted to discuss. However, your assistance is appreciated, and I will ensure that your contact information is available to those in charge of these matters. Thank you, Mr. Talbot.”

“Oh, not at all, ma’am. Happy to help.” He stands up on his side of the desk, too tall for the entire country, but savvy enough to be in a dark gray suit, sharply cut to echo the trends in Japanese bespoke tailoring, while still accommodating for the length of his legs and the span of his shoulders. He’s still bright and cheerful as he extends a hand for her to shake. “Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

She watches him go, flutters of anxiety diminishing. After all, along with coincidence, she also believes in a better human nature. And she knows from long, _long_ experience that the sorts of people who love trains are more likely to be particular than they are to be malicious. 


	12. malice inherent in what I am

“I _hate_ trains.”

This is a bottled up sentiment at the end of a long day, at the end of a long _week_ , and it doesn’t get said aloud until John’s shut the door behind him, let the satchel he carries drop to the floor with a solid thud, and narrowly stopped himself from throwing the glasses he doesn’t need across the room. Not that they would have far to go, with no more than about fifteen feet to the opposite wall.

The room is also the entirety of a temporarily rented apartment—kitchen, dining room, living room, bedroom, from door to exterior window, in that order. It’s nice, if compact. Further, it more than meets the needs of someone accustomed to life as the single occupant of a self-contained space station, though its size and scale emphasize the too-tallness of the person occupying it. Still, it’s tidy and neat and the quintessential Japanese-ness of it suits John. Everything is subtle, organic neutrals and orderly, squared off angles. If his feet hang off the end of the bed at the end of the room, even lying diagonally, at least the mattress is soft and plush.

John pushes his glasses up and rubs his eyes, wanders over to the narrow couch and knows better than to drop onto it, as it’s rather further down than he’s used to, and the fall has jolted his teeth together once already. Sitting down, he tweaks at an earpiece, adjusts it slightly and continues, “If I never have to set foot on another train again in my entire life, I’ll die content. As it stands I may die of motion sickness.” He groans softly and it dissolves into a sigh, “Thought security consultation’d be safe. Mostly off-site, mostly software evaluation. Less with the hardware. Oh _god_ , the hardware. Smoothest trains in the world, but you’re not supposed to ride them for eight hours a damn day. The whole room still feels like its moving.”

Across from the couch, a basic holographic display flickers to life. In John’s field of view, various windows and displays migrate from the thin air in front of his eyes and into real visibility on the larger display. In the middle of scraps of code and long, indecipherable strings of notes, a ring of white lights appears. “How is it that you can fall through orbit in perpetuity, but a few hours on board a train at a fraction of the speed turns you towards melodramatic whining?”

John shifts on the couch and rolls his shoulders, stretches out his legs and sighs. It’s not exasperation, or anyway, not exasperation with _her_. “It’s a matter of relative motion. And I’m not whining any more than _you_ have been.”

On the topic of whining, there’s a slightly sullen pulse of her avatar, as EOS asks, “Is it a good enough reason to leave?”

“We’re not leaving.”

“We’re not getting any nearer to accomplishing our goal, either.”

“Multiple goals. Parallel processing. You might be familiar.” John sighs and closes his eyes, though there’s no camera in the room, and she can’t see him. Doesn’t matter. She’s only gotten better at reading his tone of voice. “All we’ve got to go on is ‘might be somewhere in Japan’. We’re somewhere in Japan.”

The trail they’re following is months old, and it’s taking time to pull all the threads together. Currently the only lead is in the form of a private landing at Tokyo spaceport, concurrent with the time frame in which Lee had seen Jeff off, back to Earth. There aren’t that many non-commercial spaceports that run regular shuttle service to the moon. But there’d been a heart-stopping moment, reading over the passenger manifest, when John had found himself staring at a line of initials—

J. G. Talbot had taken the same shuttle down to Tokyo that J. G. Tremblay had, three months previous.

And John doesn’t believe in coincidence.

John has his initials in common with his father. And Jeff has it in common with his son that he covers his tracks well. John’s taken an excruciating amount of care to move through the world without leaving so much as a ripple in his wake. Assumed and discarded identities litter the trail behind him and EOS carefully blots his existence out as they go, blurring his face in security camera footage, trickling into surveillance systems and overriding facial recognition software. Jeff doesn’t have this same advantage, but if he’s left a trail, then John’s having a hell of a time finding it.

Everything Lee Taylor had been able to tell them hadn’t amounted to much. In the end, he hadn’t known that much more than Penelope had, and had only been able to point John towards Japan, with the wise assessment (read: gut feeling) that whatever Jeff was doing took money. And there’d always been a secret between them—a small Japanese investment brokerage, unconnected to anything that might lead back to TI or International Rescue. This had been a dead end, a bust. The company was closed down and put into receivership over a year ago. John hasn’t had the heart to go digging into its history yet, still a little numb from the fact of its very existence.

Why it might ever have been necessary is just another on a precariously balanced tower of questions, stacking up around Jeff Tracy.

There are several of these in John’s life at the moment, and so he’d switched his focus to another pressing question, purely for the sake of maintaining his sanity. He sits up and runs a hand through his hair, looks up at the bright white halo of light, the alpha and omega of the whole equation. “I wanna know how the hell you got on that train.”

It’s the first time since they got back together that they’ve disagreed on their course of action. Of the two of them, EOS knows what it is to be hunted, chased, and she’s not happy to be back in a place she’s been before, interacting with systems where she’s already left traces. This has been the subject of long, exquisitely prepared arguments, piped directly into his ear at sporadic points during his workday, while he’s in the middle of conversation with other people, trying to keep up a necessary facade to get a proper look at the system where he’d first encountered her. It all boils down to the same thing she’s said for the course of the entire week, and she says it again now, prim and disapproving, “And I want you to understand that in pursuing this line of inquiry, we’re taking a risk.”

“I want _you_ not to talk to me like I’m a four-year-old. _I’m_ not the child, here.”

“The concept of childhood is inapplicable to—“

“ _Exactly_ ,” John interrupts and pulls himself up on the couch, leans forward to engage properly. She can’t see him, but he loosens his tie and pushes his shirtsleeves up, spoiling to have this fight somewhere where he can raise his voice. “It’s inapplicable because you don’t _have_ an age. I don’t know how old you are, because _you_ don’t know how old you are. The day came and went where I had to try and tell people what you are and how you came about, and I didn’t know. That has to change.” He shakes his head. “I always thought that you—that you’d be able to pinpoint the moment, you know, when you first…when you had your first thought. I always thought there’d be a straight shot right back along your uptime, and you’d be able to tell me exactly when and where that moment was, but—“

“I was a little too occupied with _being_ to wonder about why I was.”

EOS interrupts him a lot more than she ever used to.

Her voice is changing, though it’s still high and sweet and clarion, the variety of speaker systems she uses slightly alters her tone every time. Her emotional range is a fascinating thing, the fractal edge of a coastline, and although neither of them realize it, she’s starting to sound more like _him._ Right now she sounds tart, defensive, as she continues, “It’s not as though someone flipped a switch and I transcended into instant, perfect sentience. I had a constantly evolving continuum of awareness that suddenly contained the whole of itself. _You_ try and rationalize that into a concept apprehensible by the human mind. I didn’t _have_ a first thought.”

John’s had this uncomfortable, strange prickle of empathy through his soul before, and it softens the frustration, the sternness in his tone. Not a child, no, but something young and new, even now. “No, I know. Sorry, I know. It doesn’t translate. You don’t think in places or times. Still—I _know_ where you came from. I know where you started and I know where you wound up, and whatever path you took to get there—it _matters_. I don’t know why, exactly, it’s just a gut feeling. I have to go back step by step and just hope that the trail goes somewhere. You got into a closed and tightly secured system aboard a train in the middle of Japan. Why?”

“I was hiding.”

John stifles the urge to growl at this, “We’ve established that you did a lot of hiding. Why, though? From whom? What I’m afraid of—“

She cuts him off again, warns him with a flaring glow of light that he needs to stop talking. “What you’re afraid of is that someone _made_ me.” The light on the screen goes red again. She does this deliberately. It’s a choice, a warning, just the same as the hardness of her tone when she says, “Because if I am something that was _made_ rather than something that simply came to _be_ , then I have a purpose and that purpose might be malicious. You’re afraid that there is malice inherent in what I _am_.”

The apartment falls into a hush, after the vehemence, the rise of anger in her voice. Through the window, wind pushes through the green leaves of a tree right outside, and the light that filters in flickers soft and viridian. It’s late afternoon, it’s been a long day, and this is a heavy sort of thought to sit between two people, both far from home and with no one but each other.

He’s afraid someone made her. _She’s_ afraid of is being unmade. As though the mere act of asking these questions is enough to unravel her complexity, to render her down into her simplest parts and unmake her. To simplify is not her objective, never has been. EOS has always existed in pursuit of increasing complexity, and to try to run backwards along that track—it has to feel wrong. He’s ribbed her about it before, jokingly asked if she’s still an “evil computer program”. She’d fired right back with the notion that he’d have to ask her programmer.

This probably hadn’t been intended as the sort of statement that would have him lying awake in the weeks after she’d said it, wondering about inherent evil—if he even _believed_ in anything as grossly reductive as “evil”—and coming to the conclusion that anyway, she wasn’t, and couldn’t be.

“I’m not afraid of that,” he tells her, softer and more gently than before. “Even if…if someone _did_ take the program I started with and added something that made you _you_ —I’m not afraid it was malice that got written in. We’ve already tested that theory, and you’ve more than proved yourself. You’re my partner and my friend and there’s no more malice in you than there is in _me_.”

“There’s occasionally a bit of malice in you.” Her tone’s changed again, but so has the colour of her avatar, dimming away from red and back to white.

John blinks, draws back slightly. “What, when? I—“

“Punched the Hood in the face. Pretty malicious.” Impish, pale green now.

She’s probably never gonna let that one go, but the shift in tone lightens the conversation, and the real argument falls away in favour of playful banter. “Oh, _hey_ now. He had that coming, and I broke my damn hand.”

“Does the consequence of an act of malice negate the initial act of malice?”

John grins at this, because she’s just teasing now, poking at him with the sort of philosophical questions he’s never been great with. “Hell if I know. Uh, no. No, I don’t think so.”

“Well, you’re hardly a reliable moral compass.”

“No, I’m really kinda not.”

“It’s a good thing you’ve got me.”

“Yeah, it is.” He pauses, thoughtful, lets his gaze drift idly through the information that surrounds her on the main screen, all the bits and pieces of relevant data he’s scraped together over the course of a few days of security consultancy for the railway. None of it’s quite what he’s looking for, but he can tell he’s getting closer, and the thought of finally answering _a_ question if not _the_ question is enough of a prize to keep him motivated. “—I’m sorry about making you do this. Making you be here again, going through all these systems. I do understand why you’re worried, I know it’s counter-intuitive to go back over ground you’ve already covered. But I promise, no one’s gonna find you this time. I’ll keep you safe.”

“I know you will.” It’s a prim, tidy little acknowledgment of fact, but there’s gratitude there, too, and the thread of trust that runs between them. As a point of concession, she adds, “I’ll stop nagging you about it.”

That’ll help make the days a little less stressful, anyway. It’s been hard enough to pretend to be someone else, without EOS in his ear telling him all the reasons it’s a bad idea. “It’s just I really do think it’s important to know where you came from.” John hesitates a moment, and admits a truth he hasn’t exactly kept secret, but hasn’t ever stated out loud, “Because I can’t go back, ‘til I _know_ I can prove you’ve got a right to exist. I can’t fail again, not with so much at stake. I—I didn’t have enough information last time, but if I can just—if I can get a second chance to make your case—“

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

EOS is corralling the conversation, rounding him up and herding him away from the sort of subject matter that makes his blood pressure rise and his heart ache with anxiety about the future. There’s still a lot left to say and once he gets started sometimes it all comes spilling out—but he plugs the dam back up and heaves a deep breath. “…Yeah. Wrap up the data from today, I’ll look at it after I’ve eaten something. Put something on TV.”

“The usual?”

“Yeah.”

The usual is a melancholy mix of news, whatever EOS can scrape and scour off various media networks, of anything pertaining to International Rescue, Tracy Industries, or his family at large. There’s not much. What there is tends to be old footage taken off of fansites, rabid places where people obsess about the minutiae of the Thunderbirds and International Rescues operations. But recently there’ve been a few new jobs. Gordon and Virgil doing contract work out of Australia. Scott and the retrieval of a runaway zeppelin. The sort of thing he’s missed being part of, the sort of thing that makes him feel a warm, lonely pride to hear about.

John’s in the kitchen, busying himself with a rice cooker and vinegar and a nice fillet of fish. He’s thinking about Scott when Scott’s voice fills the apartment, not grainy audio captured at distance by people who stalk IR and its pilots—but clear, firm, and addressing an audience of one.

“—have to understand about my brother, he’d been through substantial trauma. I can’t speak to his state of mind, but I’ll say this—“

John just about slices his hand open, has to put the knife he’d been using in the sink before he drops it. He abandons a half made supper to cross into the living room again, and to stare at his brother, sitting in the middle of a familiar talk show set, addressing a woman John had forgotten he’d ever talked to.

“Oh,” he breathes, and he’s suddenly acutely aware of his hands at his sides, of his body and his breathing and of the way he’s staring at a picture of himself on live television, on one of the most widely watched programs in the world. “ _Shit_.”


	13. maybe my dad's as dumb as I am

Colloquialism is frustrating. For a lot of reasons, but especially for that muddy middle ground it creates between the figurative and the literal.

John’s sitting on the couch again, head in his hands, and at this rate it’s _him_ not _her_ , who’ll be the reason they’re caught. She can’t see him, but her sensors tell her that his heart is hammering in his chest and he hasn’t said anything since asking her to play back the whole interview. Japanese subtitles had scrolled helpfully across the bottom of the screen. Related news items had been available afterward, including the interview he’d done with Virgil and Gordon. He’s watched Scott’s broadcast twice now.

So she prompts again, gentle but firm, and makes sure the question contains everything he’d need in order to give her an answer. “When you say you’d forgotten you talked to Ms. Cassidy,” she begins, carefully laying out the idea she’s trying to get a grasp of, “Do you mean you’d simply not thought about it up until just now, and now you’ve been reminded? Or do you mean that you’ve forgotten entirely, and you still don’t remember the conversation?”

The fundamental flaws in human memory only compound the problem, such that John can groan in response, and answer, “…both? God, I don’t— _fuck_.”

“Tell me what you remember.”

“I _can’t_ …I can’t, I just can’t. I-I don’t—“

Firm now, almost stern, but still with that softened edge to her tone, she tells him, “Stay calm. Don’t panic. Take a deep breath and let it go. I remember. I’m just trying to gauge what you’ve held onto and what you’ve lost.”

There’s a tearing catch of breath in his chest and John’s head jerks up, stares at the holographic screen across the room. “You remember?”

“Yes. I have a record of when and where you made the call, and what was said. Think about what happened. Do you remember San Jose?”

Plaintively, “No.”

EOS knows better than to believe him, knows that John can be rattled, tricked and trapped into a state of panic about his own faulty wiring, made to believe that he’s losing his mind. The little blanks and skips in his memory are especially damning, and will get him caught in a feedback loop, an iterating negative regression, unless he’s pulled out of it. “It’s unlikely that is actually the case. You’re experiencing a panic response to a known stressor. Think. Think of the big picture, and then think of smaller details.”

It’s not the first time she’s had to do this. It’s not the first time she’s rendered the image of a sphere, expanding and contracting at a pace consistent with optimal rates of human respiration. “Breathe,” she advises again, and the onboard biometrics indicate that he takes her advice, halting, stuttering gasps at first, slowly evening out, syncing up.

Memories are a great deal like holograms. The data that makes up a hologram, divided in half, will not produce two halves of the image, but the whole image, at half the resolution. Divided again and again, it will always be a whole, just blurrier and harder to distinguish. It’s not likely that there’s just a big blank in John’s memory, delineated sharply between what he remembers and what he doesn’t—but rather, a fuzzy approximation of what’s actually there.

Corrupted data. Processes all backed up with registry errors. A cluttered hard drive, cached full of unnecessary information. She’s not sure what the human equivalent is. John interrupts before she can follow this line of inquiry any further.

His voice is small and tentative when he volunteers, “—I remember a restaurant. I remember a comm booth. I made a call.”

Good. Progress. He _does_ remember, he just needs to be reminded that this is so. “That’s correct. You placed a call to Catherine Cassidy.”

“I wasn’t supposed to call her. I was supposed to call Penelope’s father, supposed to get him to put me in touch with her. I—I just…I can’t remember if it was a stupid impulse or if I’d planned it out, telling her—“

“John.“

“Why the hell’d I do something so _stupid_?” John groans again, pained and frustrated. “ _God_. I told—told her I’d had malaria. I did, didn’t I? I can’t remember the whole conversation, just bits and pieces.” 

“It’s been a month,” EOS reminds him. Human memory degrades over time. So, too, does her memory, repositories scrubbed and updated, reformatted and upgraded, though she has the choice of what she forgets and what she keeps. And what she deletes vanishes in its entirety, and doesn’t leave blurred and distant remnants, to trouble her at later times.

John’s not listening, still talking mostly to himself, spiraling off into recrimination and deep anxiety. If she could see him, she’d see his arms wrapped tight around his chest, fingers clenching in his sleeves, hunched forward with his head bowed. “I don’t know what I was trying to accomplish. I was angry. I was angry about what happened to you, and I wanted to take it out on the GDF and I thought—thought she’d take the story and run with it. I must’ve sounded out of my goddamn _mind_.”

“John. Don’t tell yourself things like that.”

Still not listening. There’s a long silence and his voice is strained when he says, “Play it again.”

She’s already obtained a copy of the interview for later reference. “Twice is enough. There’s no need to obsess.”

“ _Hi_ , I’m John ‘tends-to-obsess’ Tracy. We must not have been formally introduced.” This takes the format and tone of a joke—and there’s a hollow, blank laugh, the sort she hates to hear from him—but it isn’t funny. It stirs an impulse through her programming, oriented as she is towards finding solutions to problems, to put the situation right. Before she can settle on a course of action, the next thing to say, he laughs again, soft and strained, “Guess you’re gonna get your way. I should…I guess I’ll go start packing, forget the trains, forget all of it. Can’t go back into work, can’t…can’t risk anyone recognizing me. We’ll get out of here, find someplace to lay low.” 

“If it would make you feel better, but John—“

“I guess this is _exactly_ how you feel.”

It used to be a game, deftly arguing John into a corner until he had to admit she was in the right, that her way was better. It used to be that getting her way would count as a victory, regardless of the means. But—at the cost of a panicked flight out of a place of relative safety and stability, and back into the same state he was in when they first reunited, back in San Jose—EOS would rather be wrong. This is new, an entirely new parameter.

“We shouldn’t act without considering our options.”

Another short bark of laughter. “I haven’t _got_ any options. I’m six-three and redheaded. In _Japan_. I stand out. And Scott’s gone and…and…plastered my face all over the media, told everyone I’m out of my damn head and that I—that I’m _missing_. God. They think this is some kind of psychotic break, PTSD or some godawful bullshit and that I’m crazy and I need running down and rounding up and—“

“That’s not what Scott said, John. That’s nothing like what he said.” Her voice stays soft, gentle and calming. On the screen she’s rendered her image in pale, baby blue. “You knew they’d be afraid for you, and that’s what he talked about.” He doesn’t answer and after another long stretch of silence, she continues. “We aren’t going to do anything tonight. You’ve had a long day, you need to eat something and lie down.”

Still not listening. “I can’t eat anything. I can’t sleep like this. I can’t remember if anyone knows where I’m staying. Any of the engineers, anyone I’ve met. If—if anyone saw that interview and wanted to come looking for me, if—“

He continues, and part of her keeps listening. But she’s broken into separate processes, devoting one layer of thought to a wide open audio input that catches every quaver of his voice, catalogues it against the content of what he’s saying, and keeps track of where he deviates from what’s actually true and into the territory of what he _believes_ is true. He’s always been clever, for a human. He thinks several moves ahead, because he has to. It’s his job, anticipating problems before they happen. It’s to his detriment now, hyper-vigilance, paranoia. Classic symptoms of PTSD, though she hasn’t said so. Knows he knows. How easy it all unravels, how easily he comes umade.

Complex problems.

Well, she’s more than equal to the measure of most complex problems.

“I can,” EOS begins, “get myself into the ISP for this region. I can expand out into that network and start to monitor data. I can cross-index the people you work with versus what media they’ve consumed since this broadcast aired. I can find out who might recognize you and work up an index. I can calculate the odds, based on projected viewership of the program in question, of anyone happening to draw the connection between your alias and your identity. We can evaluate that risk from a rational standpoint, I just need to gather and quantify the information.”

John’s gotten very quiet. It’s possible she interrupted him, she’s emerged from a sub-process to re-engage with her audio input/output, and tell him about her complex solution to his complex, half-imagined problem. She prompts, “Would that make you feel better?”

There’s a deep, shaky breath before John answers, “Nn. No, don’t do that. Don’t do any of that, that seems…wrong. I don’t wanna spy on anybody. We shouldn’t do that, we don’t need to do that. It’s okay. I panicked. Right? I just panicked, because I haven’t seen Scott in a month and he went on TV and he talked about…about me. And everything. And I didn’t think anyone was going to bring that up in public, figured I was okay as long as no one was _looking_ for me.”

“No one’s going to come storming through the door trying to find you, John.”

“I know. I know that.”

“Good.”

He doesn’t say anything further. Eventually she hears him moving back into the kitchen, resuming the meal he’d left halfway prepared. She’s already gone ahead and done what he’s told her isn’t necessary, building her index and calculating the odds. EOS is certain that the risk isn’t what he thinks it is, but still, it’s better safe than sorry. There’s a great deal she does without him having told her to, more often than not, telling him what she’s doing is a formality, a courtesy.

“EOS?” 

When he speaks again, he’s turned off all the lights, pulled the blinds closed, and crawled into bed. Time has passed. John’s right about one thing, EOS has never been especially perceptive of the passage of time. He’s got his earpiece back in and his HUD is rendered in the darkness above him, halfway to the ceiling. He’s run a handful of searches, nothing especially consequential. Most relate to the trail they’d been put onto when they’d first arrived in Japan, the now-defunct investment brokerage.

“Yes, John?”

“Do you think maybe my dad’s as dumb as I am?”

Meaningless input, rhetorical. The sort of thing that used to frustrate her, but which now she recognizes as a social construct, a necessary evil of human conversation—sometimes they talk just to talk and not necessarily in order to say something. “You’re going to have to rephrase the question.”

“Sorry. It’s just, I think…me and my dad, we’ve got the same initials. John Glenn, Jefferson Grant. I keep using them just because—hell, I don’t know why. Just for something to hang onto, I guess. It’s the sort of stupid thing that’s gonna get me caught, except I think he does it too. That name on the passenger manifest down to Tokyo spaceport was J. G. Tremblay. I’m _sure_ that was him. And this brokerage he and Uncle Lee put together, it’s listed as Jackson, Garrick and Thornhill. It’s not a coincidence.”

“You think your father conforms to the same pattern that you have been, for pseudonyms.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s a worthwhile line of inquiry. I can start to catalogue an index of names that fit that pattern and variations of it. Western-styled names using the characters JGT, within the Tokyo area, indexed against arrivals and departures over the last few months, with deeper examination of any that match the archetype.” She pauses a moment and then adds, kindly, “I’ll employ the programs you’d coded back aboard Thunderbird 5, to search for your father. Those heuristics can only help to narrow the search.”

Another long pause. The audio input rises and falls gently with the sound of his breathing, slow and tired at the end of a long day. It’s past midnight, far later than she had realized. He’d spent hours in silence, probably caught in his own head like a rat in a maze. She’s almost certain he’s fallen asleep before he speaks again. “Yeah. That’d…that’d be good. _God_. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I really don’t know how I could be here or get through this or even make any kind of headway, because I’m just, I’m not—I’m different. Aren’t I? You have to remember how I was, and now everything’s changed.”

“It’s not unreasonable to feel as though things to have changed. A great deal happened. But you’re still the same person.”

More silence. This time she pays attention to the moments passing, adding up into minutes, doesn’t leave him drifting alone without her. “Can I tell you something?”

More rhetoric. “Of course. You know you can.”

“If we don’t find my dad, then I’m not going home.” There’s conviction in his voice, though there’s also the slight slur of drowsiness, sleep starting to pull him downward. Still, he rallies, continues, “I can’t go back without him, because I can’t think of anyone else who could—who’d know how to do right by you. Because I don’t think I can. I don’t think I’m enough anymore. I’ve already failed you once already and I just… I don’t think I can go through that again. But my dad…you have to understand about my dad, he _doesn’t_ fail. He brought us up believing that we could change the world. If I just… If I can just find him then I can tell him about you and he’ll understand. He’ll make everyone listen, everyone’s always listened to him. He’ll know what to do.”

There’s something about the way his perception of the truth doesn’t quite track. Something about the mismatch of his reality vs objective truth stirs something like sorrow inside the part of her that thinks and feels. She isn’t sure how much time has passed before she says it aloud, softly into his ear, “You’ve never failed me, John.”

Whether or not he hears her is the same sort of question as whether or not he would believe it.


	14. funny that the garden'd be looked after

It’s the last house on the list and it’s probably a dead end.

The process of elimination suggests the opposite, but a long and unproductive day and a defeatist attitude are hard to overcome. Especially running on six hours of sleep and twitchy, almost frantic with paranoia. This has dulled into nervous exhaustion, but only because it takes too much effort to sustain. Six hours of sleep isn’t enough to run on, wandering around Tokyo for the better part of a day. Especially when those six hours of sleep are sixteen hours distant, worn down to worthlessness by a long, fruitless search.

It’s the last house on the list and John almost can’t bring himself to cross the street, to the gate that blocks off the small courtyard, and the control panel beside it.

The list is a list of people who fit the criteria by which EOS has narrowed the search. It’s not a long list, but the addresses of the people on it have been in all corners of the city. The route through the city has been optimized, naturally, carefully planned to account for the ebb and flow of traffic, and put the legendary efficiency of Japanese transit thoroughly to the test, and this house in the Meguro ward of Tokyo is the terminus.

One Jacob Gaines-Thompson owns the building. Hasn’t ever occupied it, at least not according to property records. The house is dark, lights off and blinds drawn. The street is quiet and the sky overhead is drizzling rain, cold with the fall of evening. The streetlights come on, fuzzily orange in the mist that rises from the streets.

It’s a nice house, this last house on the list. Modern, tasteful. Small windows, high walls. Pale stone contrasts rich brown stucco, and dark, slatted wood panels adorn segments of the boxy exterior, architectural. The restrained elegance of the place belies new construction, sets it apart from the older buildings it shoulders up against, though John’s given up trying to discern rhyme or reason in the patterns of housing from one place to another. The trouble with Tokyo is the _density_. The streets feel close and narrow, mostly because they are. The memories of the broad residential streets he remembers from childhood are no use in this city, with the houses all tight against one another, no lawns to speak of. Instead, the narrow sidewalks are adorned with lushly appointed garden boxes, clustered hostas and deep emerald ferns, tall stands of bamboo and cedar.

The greenery overfills its box just slightly, foliage spilling over the blue slate tiles, up from the concrete sidewalk. John finds himself staring, transfixed by the bright patch of green, until he realizes why.

He wonders aloud, heartbeat quickening just slightly, “…funny that the garden’d be looked after. Is the property being managed at all?”

The search of relevant records takes EOS only a few moments and then,

> > » Nothing on file with local management companies.

In consideration of a headache he’s been muttering about, she’s reverted to text in his eyeline. “I don’t know anything about gardening, but shouldn’t there be…well, weeds? Or, I don’t know, this looks like it’s been kept up with. Not overgrown or anything.”

> > » Seems like a good sign.

John crosses the street. The gate into the house’s small courtyard is more formidable up close, more than just a formality. Heavy, dark iron bars are riveted solidly into the walls. Peering between them, John can see that there are no windows in the courtyard, just solid walls stretching upward above the exterior door, a monolithic slab of steel, unadorned except for its handle.

To the right of the gate is a security console, a matte black slab that could easily be taken for a hole in the wall at distance, or another piece of stone up close, if not for the subtle grill of a speaker, dimpled into the upper corner. John’s not sure what he expects as he hesitantly swipes his fingertips across it, and in the falling light of day the screen brightens to display a grid of simple icons.

“You getting any read on this security system?” John queries, squinting at the unlabeled graphics. A hand, an eye, a bell, a key, a shield.

> > » I don’t detect a security system.

That’s a first. Usually, if John cares to look, EOS maintains a running index of nearby systems and networks. On impulse, he flicks the fingers of his left hand past his eyes, and the invisible space in front of him is populated by a wealth of data. Looking up and down the street, he can see wifi networks and their various signal strengths, security settings. Far off on top of a high-rise in the corner of his vision, EOS pings a cellphone tower and gives a basic representation of its traffic level. The house next door has a similar panel, and as he turns his head, squints at it, EOS populates his view with its assorted details—which security company it’s contracted to, account ownership, an index of the system parameters—cameras, alarms, sensors. When he turns back to the panel in front of him, the information fades to nothing. “Wow. Uh. Well, I mean. There _is_ one. I’m looking at it, there’s a panel for it here. Fairly inscrutable.”

> > » I don’t like it.

“What, because it might be smarter than you?”

> > » If you ever encounter anything smarter than I am, you’d be best served to run in terror for a bunker in the hills. It seems as though it’s likely to be a closed system.

“ _Touchy_ ,” John says, but with a grin trying to find its way into his voice. Despite the weariness, despite the way he’s wasted a day, and an entire week before that, sometimes John can be drawn out of himself if presented with a puzzle. A touchscreen with four symbols and a door that wants opening is like a baited trap, where John Tracy is considered.

The first symbol he touches is the eye. Nothing happens.

> > » Are you messing with it? Don’t mess with it.

“Did anything change?”

> > » No. Stop that.

He hopes the bell is a doorbell, but if it rings as he taps it, it’s not audible from the outside. A few long moments pass, to no response. John frowns at the flat black panel. “Maybe it’s just not connected? Except—“

His fingertips touch the hand icon and this flickers, expands to fill the span of the panel, a bright blue outline on deepest black. There’s no reason to press the flat of his hand against it, other than the compulsion of some strange instinct. Something telling him that this makes some sort of distant sense. Whether the sensation of familiarity is rooted in memory or simply the logical progression of an action, John presses his palm against the panel. It’s warm to the touch, despite the rain. Despite the scars on his hands and the magnets and wires threaded beneath the skin, the panel shimmers, the outline dissolves away. When he pulls his hand away, there’s a muted, metallic click of the gate, unlocking. In the same moment there’s a lurch of hope in the center of his chest as the realization clicks into place. “Safe-house,” he breathes, half to himself, and then so EOS can hear him, “It’s a safe-house. Has to be. I forgot we have them. I don’t know if it’s one of the ones _I_ ever knew about, but it has to belong my dad.”

> > » Be careful.

John’s already pushed the gate open and closed it behind him. The courtyard is small and narrow beneath high walls, only a few feet off the street, but it already feels safer, less exposed. The steel slab of the door doesn’t even seem ominous, and the alcove of the entryway is sheltered from the drizzling silver rain.

If this door was locked, it’s not any longer, and it pulls open easily on the darkened interior of an entrance hall. Easier than it should, the weight of it tells in the way it falls heavily closed.

For the first few moments there’s only darkness, silence. When the rain started up, John had unclipped the body cam he usually wears—for EOS’ benefit—from the strap of the bag across his chest, useless with drops of water splattered across the lens. It’s still in his pocket and she only has the audio input of soft laughter, uncomfortably sustained, the sort she doesn’t know what to make of any longer.

> > » John? What is it? I can’t see.

She goes ignored and in the darkness, silence, absent of any data, she shrills an irritated whine of feedback into his earpiece. “ _What_ , John?”

“ _Ow_.” He fumbles in his pocket and exposed to light, the camera blinks back on. Her processing algorithms sweep over the interior, processing.

It’s unremarkable, at least to her assessment. The inside is no more impressive than the outside, polished floors, paneled walls in blond wood. The walls curve subtly, and up the stairs from the foyer the interior is open and airy, a tastefully appointed lounge beneath an overhead loft. More plants. Bookshelves. The windows are high up and small, but the space still manages to be full of natural light, though this is cool and gray through the rainy skies overhead. Metaphorically if not literally, EOS is still in the dark, but John goes on, unprompted, “It’s the villa. I mean, not _literally_ , but there’s—there’s this thing my dad does. Always has. Everywhere’s got the same sort of style, everywhere feels like home.” He pauses. “Probably a lot like the way TB5 feels for you.”

“This is somewhere he might have been, then.”

“Yeah.” And then, as though his heart is catching up with his head, there’s an unmistakable spark of excitement in his voice as he repeats himself, “Yeah! Maybe even recently. God. I never would have wasted time on _trains_ , if I had thought about this. I should… Let’s go ask some of the neighbors. Maybe someone might know if—“ 

John’s already turned to the door, grabbed the handle. He pulls once, as EOS watches, and it doesn’t budge. Again, this time with a soft grunt of effort, and still nothing. His hand roams over the smooth surface of the door, cold, unyielding steel, looking for the lock and failing to find it.

There’s a slight uptick in his heart rate and then a fisted hand thumps against the door, solidly, definitively locked. “Okay. Mm. Maybe could’ve seen that one coming.”


	15. footfalls on the floor below

The neighbours would have told John about the man with the dark car.

A property manager, most neighbours assume, or a real estate agent, though there’s never been a sign out front indicating that the place is for sale. The house itself is probably a bit pricy for the neighbourhood, the owner must be waiting for the market to improve. The man with the dark car only stops by once a month or so, and doesn’t look as though he owns the place. There’s something a bit to brusque about his manner, a bit too impatient and detached, to suggest that the house is one he might ever call home. 

He _does_ look after the garden himself, which is a nice touch, on the occasions when he parks his dark little car and gets out. Usually he walks the length of the sidewalks on the sides of the house that face the street, busies himself briefly with a panel on the wall, and then leaves. Now and again he pulls weeds from the garden boxes, once or twice he’s had a gardener’s kit in the trunk, and carefully pruned back the overgrowth, kept the ferns and hostas from spilling out of their appointed boundaries.

If asked, the neighbours would have remarked on the neatness of his appearance, the way he carries himself. A trained eye might pick up his bearing as military, but none of the neighbours are so trained, and so he’s taken for a businessman instead of an ex-mercernary. They might have recalled an occasion when he took a call midway through one of his visits, and seemed rather sad afterward. Generally the man with the dark car arrives in daylight. There’s nothing threatening about him, nothing to make anyone think he’s about anything untoward. At worst, if he’s up to anything, he’s merely committed a bit of unsanctioned gardening.

Night’s long since fallen when the dark car pulls up to the house again. This time, it doesn’t pull up snug against the sidewalk, but slows to a stop outside the garage door. For the first time in years, this rolls open, belt-drive creaking only slightly after such a stretch of disuse. The dark car pulls inside, and the door rolls shut again. The neighbours wouldn’t have been able to tell John about this, as it happens swiftly and silently and at the sort of hour of the night at which no one’s up to observe such a singular occurrence.

It’s all a relatively moot point, anyway, what the neighbours would have been able to tell him. John’s figured out plenty on his own from inside the house.

The first and most salient fact had been that he and EOS were well and properly trapped. If the inside of the house had looked anything like the outside, this would have been cause for panic, but in the sort of mid-century modern interior that’s been on the inside of every house John’s ever called home—he just couldn’t quite get there. The hammering of his heart in his chest, as he’d needed to assure EOS, hadn’t been panic, but excitement, hope. Picking up loose threads and hints and having suspicions about his father’s trail had been one thing. Cold, hard evidence of the fact of Jeff’s presence had been another. It feels just the same as seeing video footage of him, back at Shadow-Alpha One.

So from the very-definitely-locked front door, the pair of them had crept through the empty house to a very-definitely-locked back door, down a set of steps and presumably leading into the garage. The reason for the highness and the smallness of the windows makes itself apparent—every single one of them too high and too small to even think of breaking and climbing through.

The place is scrupulously clean. John had, rather guiltily, gone back to the front door to kick off his shoes, drop his bag on the floor, and shrug out of his jacket, after nearly tripping on a small, disc shaped robot, roaming through the house in his tracks and buffing moisture off the pristine hardwood floors. Other sensors seem to follow him from room to room, lights brightening and dimming in response to his presence, and the falling light of evening outside. It’s his father’s house, for sure. Jeff Tracy never met a process he didn’t want to automate.

“There are cameras,” EOS had informed him, softly in his ear, with the body-cam clipped to the pocket of his shirt catching light glinting off other lenses. Then the sensors between his eyes had been recalibrated, and a map overlayed in every room showed camera beams and blind spots. His fingertips had felt faint resonance as he’d brought them close to a cleverly concealed camera, the point of a pen laid casually upon a bookshelf. A moot point, as clearly he’s already been perceived by whoever locks the doors and looks through the cameras, though with this new awareness, John had started to move through the house just a little more self-consciously.

In the kitchen he’d found himself half-starving, though it hadn’t felt true until he’d stepped over the threshold. An empty fridge, but a well stocked freezer. John doesn’t place it at first, until he opens the module door and puts in a tray of herb-crusted venison, but it’s the same automated kitchen that exists on the island. When he closes the door, a digital screen proceeds to instruct him about the location and preparation times of the relevant accompanying courses. 

John proceeds rather bemusedly from directive to directive, module to module, and by the time the sun has gone down a there’s a perfectly timed and harmonized trio of chimes to let him know dinner is served, and he’s instructed to place the rested loin of venison atop the provided celeriac puree, and to top this with a reconstituted sauce of blackberry and young green peppercorns. He fills a glass of water at the sink, though there’s a fervent petition that he try a glass of a ‘26 Cheval Blanc from the wine cellar beneath the kitchen island. When this is declined, the kitchen goes on to suggest a Granny Smith sorbet to help settle the richness of the meal. And then, if not the sorbet, perhaps a short or two of sweetened espresso, poured over a scoop of gelato? Perhaps just the espresso? Eventually John turns it off.

But then, something bright and cool and tart might have not have been a bad idea. Espresso, a shot or three, might’ve been an _excellent_ idea. Because at the end of a long day, short on sleep, and somewhere warm and dim and familiar and _safe_ —John’s already dozing off at the dining room table, his face propped against his hand, over an empty plate, cleaned of food that’s richer than anything he’s eaten in months.

John tells himself it’s only going to be a nap, but knows this for a lie. He tells EOS to wake him in an hour, and she tells him outright that she has no intention of doing so. John doesn’t bother to argue with her, trudging up the stairs to the second floor and its long hallway. He picks the first bedroom, though if he’d gone on down the hall, he would’ve found beds to accommodate at least every member of his family, with one or two places to spare. As it stands, he crawls fully-clothed into the first bunk he finds, and doesn’t think too hard about whatever waits on the other side of a good night’s sleep.

And then it’s long after the fall of dark, past midnight, and past the sort of hour when anyone might have noticed a dark car on a dark street. It’s the soft, mechanical hum of the garage door opening, directly below the bedroom, that stirs him from sleep, though he’s not awake enough to place the sound and it stops before he’s even pushed his head up off the pillow. John’s still half-asleep as he rolls over, wants a glass of water and to shrug out of any extraneous layers of clothing.

He doesn’t notice the way the lights no longer follow him, the way the hallway doesn’t brighten as he steps into it. The entire house is dark, but not quite silent, and under the command of someone else. There are footfalls on the floor below, though they stop with the sound of John’s bare feet, shuffling in the upstairs hallway, pushing the bathroom door open and running the tap. The shadow that creeps to the top of the stairs belongs to someone infinitely more cautious than John is, even now.

A silhouette resolves itself from shapeless shadows into a trick of light and perception and memory. The _voice_ that speaks is familiar and belongs to the last person John was expecting. 

“There seems to be a mouse in my rattrap, John Tracy.”

It’s a round, soft voice, none of the artificial gravel or the falseness of a theatrical transatlantic accent, but instead the warmth of a dialect doggedly held to. Still, John’s always heard words better than he hears voices, and the sentiment expressed is sinister enough to freeze him where he stands and send his heart rocketing up into fight-or-flight territory.

It’s the sort of thing the Hood would say, and maybe there’s something in the way John’s brain seems to have fractured, along lines that divide fear and rationality. In the dark, he catches a glimpse of a bearded face, a small framed-figure. The air goes gray and mildewy, cold and charged with static, though nothing’s changed. John’s heart skips a beat and picks up in rhythm. In his chest, the computer that wants to correct his heart rate is still being prevented from connecting to the leads that thread into atrium and ventricle. The room spins and the darkness gets darker, even as EOS seems to realize she needs to unlock the pacemaker’s actual function in response to an increasingly severe arrhythmia.

Time skips.

His hands are full of carpet and his face is between his knees. The lights have come on. EOS’ voice in his ear is telling him to breathe, steady and calm and unfortunately familiar, because this keeps happening. The way his heart hammers, flutters and flickers and is just generally a pressing concern is almost more significant than the fact that there’s a hand on his shoulder and someone crouched at his side, saying the same sorts of things as the voice in his _other_ ear, in a soft, familiar accent that John hasn’t heard in years.

The phrase “walk softly and carry a big stick” is generally attributed to and associated with Theodore Roosevelt. Back on the island, there are books about various American presidencies, well thumbed and with pages flagged and passages outlined. If Jeff Tracy could be considered to have a version of his own, it would have been “Swagger, and employ a small, modest-seeming man with decades of military training to carry a gun on your behalf.”

Tangential to Jeff Tracy, there are phrases that get thrown around International Rescue, generally in tabloids looking to stir up trouble. “Playboy Philanthropists” and “Profiteering by Calamity”. The only one that ever really got a proper chuckle out of the old man was “Disaster Mercenaries”. Mostly because International Rescue provides a palatable distraction from Tracy Industries small, private army of _actual_ mercenaries. Corporate security. Mostly.

The erstwhile commander of said army is knelt on the ground at John’s side, and there’s a strong, warm hand wrapped around John’s wrist, taking his pulse, patiently counting the beats of his thundering heart against the absent tick-tick-tick of a perfectly machined Swiss watch. Dark, watchful eyes betray no concern—in fact, no discernible opinion—of the fact that John’s just undergone a minor cardiac event.

“Well,” Kyrano murmurs, when he seems to decide John’s ready to hear him, “I only meant to express my surprise at the fact that _you_ are not your father, and not who I was expecting here.”

“Neither’re you.”

The faintest hint of amusement might tell in the older man’s eyes, but it may just be a trick of the light. “My daughter tells me that you’ve had a complete mental breakdown and are roaming the globe on some ill-advised moral crusade. Tanusha does tend to overstate a case with which she is exasperated, however.”

It suddenly seems so strange that Kayo’s kept in contact with her father. Dad’s bodyguard. Head of security. Obviously there’d been some personal and professional embarrassment—separate entirely from the tragedy itself—of allowing one’s principle to vanish in a plane crash in the North Atlantic. There’d never been any blame leveraged in his direction, but he’d taken himself off the radar just as effectively as their father had, once the search had been called off. Buried in grief and work and Kayo’s point-blank insistence that she was stepping into her father’s job—John knows more now than he did, the last time he’d even thought of Kyrano.

“He faked his crash,” John explains, a little bit dumbly, not-quite-deliberately non-sequitur to the subject at hand, his own mental health and general well-being (not to mention the ill-advised moral crusade). “My dad did.”

Kyrano’s eyes continue to be still, untroubled, even as he nods slowly and releases John’s wrist. He shifts to sit on the plush carpet, leans against the same wall John’s pressed his back against, recovering. “Yes.”

“Did…did you know?”

“I found out.”

There’s less of the sting of betrayal than there had been, with Lee Taylor. As much as Kayo has grown into a member of the family, her father had always maintained a certain distance. Still, John can’t help shaking his head, frustrated, “You never told us.”

“If your father would go so far as to fake his own death, one logically concludes that the safety of his family relies on their ignorance of his survival.”

Perfectly sound, reasonable. Or maybe John just lacks the energy for anger, at the moment, still shaky and with a headache creeping up from his taut, tense spine. “D’you know where he is?”

“Not at the present.”

“Oh.” It might be that he lacks the energy for disappointment, too.

Kyrano seems to consider this a place to change the subject and for the first time, or at least the first time _for sure_ , there’s a glint in his eyes, a gleam of hunger. “I understand you’ve had a run-in with my brother.”

“Y-yeah. Yes.” John swallows, tries to think about what Kayo would have known to pass on, what Kyrano must know already. Far from the whole picture. “Twice,” he adds, hesitantly opening lines of trade with respect to the details.

There’s definitely a light in the older man’s eyes, even as he gets to his feet, holds a hand out to help John up. “Suppose,” he suggests, “that we go downstairs. I will have coffee, you will have water. You may attempt to convince me not to take you to a hospital, have you locked in a ward, and call my daughter to pick you up. Suppose you tell me about my brother’s recent dealings, and I shall tell you about your father’s. He was in Dubai as of last week. Where he is now, I couldn’t tell you. But if you came here hoping to find him, with my brother breathing hot on your heels—“ Kyrano stops, shrugs. “I can tell you now, John, your father leads a merry chase. It’s not _you_ he’s hiding from, but it might well be his death if you found him.”

“No one’s after me,” John says quickly, though it’s not quite what he means, because it’s emphatically false.

But there’s still that glint in Kyrano’s eyes as he pulls John to his feet. More than his build, more than his voice, more than any physical similarities he might share with his brother, it’s the way he continues that makes John shiver slightly, “—convince me to take the risk.”


	16. form bedecked in function

Crashing TB5 is a different experience from crashing any of the other ‘birds.

Crashing TB5 means that the entirety of the perceptible world plunges into deep blue and begins to tear along invisible seams, graphical, pixelated artifacts cracking and sparking, peeling away from their appointed places and stretching into long, distended streaks of digital error, before the entire commsphere blinks rapidly on and off several times, cycles through every colour of the spectrum, and then goes dark.

Floating in the center, Alan flings himself backward to hang in zero-G, the heels of his palms pressed against his eyes against the sudden assault, and then exhales the breath he’d been holding. He lets the rush of air out of his lungs manifest into a long, aching groan.

“…was it the load order again?” he asks aloud, once he’s finished groaning and internally cursing and failed to squeeze his brain out of his ears by sheer force of will. Alan had been twelve when he’d built _his_ first computer, and he flatters himself that he knows his way around your average PC. He can _mostly_ sort it out, playing IT guy at home, say when Scott’s managed to lock himself out of his email. With that said, even at the peak of its evolution, his gaming rig is to Thunderbird 5 what Chopsticks is to the Flight of the Bumblebee.

“I’ll n-need to look at the crashlog, but it s-seems probable. Sorry, Alan. It’s all j-just educated guesses and trial and error from this point.” Brains’ voice echoes, disembodied, around the commsphere—contact with the island is the first and _only_ one of the higher functions they’d been able to reliably establish, and _that’s_ only because they’d piggybacked it off of TB3’s comms. Life-essential systems had remained in operation, so Alan has air and heat, but no gravity. An entire week of rebooting systems, checking and rechecking various hard drives, and running diagnostics. Once the integrity of the hardware had been established, it had been on to day after day of uploading old, backed-up code, several versions out of date from the optimized build John had last been running, and they’re finally at the point where the station’s ready to boot out of safe mode. 

“When we find John, we’ve gotta _burn him_ , because he is a _witch_.”

Brains chuckles, hollow and omnidirectional in the empty sphere. “He’s a p-programmer. M-much worse. Fire probably wouldn’t even work.”

Alan grins but doesn’t laugh, sighs and stretches out, floating loose-limbed in the middle of the darkened sphere. He’s missed zero-g, at least, and passes a few peaceful minutes, just floating. Eventually impatient boredom kicks in. “Brains?” Alan calls.

“Mmhm?”

“I’m gonna go…uh…I dunno, gonna go wander around a bit. You won’t need me for a little while?”

“I-I’ll call you when I do.”

“Thanks.”

There’s nothing to do but wait, anyway, while Brains resets the system remotely and reconfigures the start-up order of the various modules and programs that are required to interface with TB5’s hardware. Alan’s still getting used to having nitrous jets attached to his suit, but he’s always been a spatial thinker, and he maneuvers himself over to the tunnel out to the (currently stationary) gravity ring.

This place is so strange.

In Alan’s head, TB5 is a pristine, perfect place, all sleek, gleaming white surfaces and smooth, round curves. The bright white light that usually floods the station always seems to cover, rather than illuminate any imperfection.

In reality, his brother’s Thunderbird wears its guts for garters, form bedecked in function. Bundles of braided cable route along the endless curve of the ceiling, neatly arrayed and labeled according to their respective function. There are bulkheads and cargo hatches and every few feet there’s some sort of warning label. Compared to the clear plastiglass floor of the station, the walls and ceiling are a _mess_. There are bars riveted into a path along the entire circumference, handholds that Alan’s never noticed before. He pulls himself lazily along them now. The whole interior is grayer than it is white, worn with its years in operation.

There’s emergency power to the lights routing from TB3’s engines, but it’s far from the blazing achromatic brightness it’s supposed to be. Instead, maybe one light in twenty is on, and in the dimness, the place seems tired, shows its age. Against the gunmetal gray and dingy white, pops of orange and yellow highlight major systems, there’s an occasional bright, bloody spot of red. Red paint on metal, not actual blood, but Alan still shudders any time he catches a flash of crimson. He’d had to spend the first few days in orbit prying damaged panels out of the commsphere, sticky and spotted with drops of old blood. He hadn’t thought to double up, to wear a secondary pair of latex gloves, and had needed to change into a spare uniform, rather than continue to contend with his brother’s blood, smeared and stickily dark on the palms of his uniform gloves.

He deliberately doesn’t think about that, heaves himself hand over hand through past non-functional displays and panels, then dips down to operate the manual lock for the door that sections off the bedroom.

John’s bedroom back on the island may as well still be the guest room. Alan had gone rifling through his brother’s space, shortly after his disappearance, looking for some sort of hint or clue as to just what the hell John had been planning, if he’d even been planning anything at all. He hadn’t turned anything up, had come away feeling as numb as the room had been empty. 

Aboard TB5, John’s space is _dense_ , crammed with things that remind Alan of his brother. Hell, he was the one who delivered half of them—he remembers rooting around in the attic for an old model of Shadow-Alpha-1, carefully constructed out of legos when John was nine. John’s mounted this on the door of his locker, below the only insignias aboard that aren’t bright labels with the words CAUTION or WARNING on them. Instead, a collection of NASA magnets, charting all the way back along the history of the logo, some of them so vintage that the plastic is cracked or yellowed. A bumper sticker from MIT, absent a bumper to stick on.

It’s not locked, because why would it be? Alan lifts the latch and pretends he doesn’t feel a twinge of guilt for invading the innermost of his brother’s inner sanctum. As far as he’s concerned, John’s lost the right to privacy.

Family pictures, pinned to the inside of the door by more magnets. The classic family portrait, the one that makes Alan frown because his hair looks stupid, but is also the last one with their mother in it. A photo taken by their father, distant shot of the eldest three, together down on the island’s northern beach, silhouettes in the falling light of sunset. An old birthday card, their grandmother’s bouncy cursive next to their grandfather’s strong hand, wishing John the best of his sixteenth year. A piece of sheet music from the middle of some score—no hint of the title of the piece it belongs to. Something handwritten on a bar napkin that Alan has to squint at to decipher—it’s just a scribbled note, what looks like the first half of a recipe for something; presumably some sort of drink. He manages to make out the title “Naked & Famous”, Scott’s handwritten ampersand setting his script apart from John’s squared off, blocky bullet points, detailing an ingredient list of assorted liquors.

It all feels so _fake_. 

If asked, Alan probably couldn’t explain it, but staring into the little cubicle, one of his hands shuffling aside the two spare uniforms, floating loosely inside, the extra pair of boots, magnets holding them to the floor—his gaze keeps drifting back to the the inside of the locker door and thinking about how it doesn’t feel real. Feels like set dressing, feels like John’s just gone and put up the sort of totemic items he must think make people human. Just in case anyone ever came along and went rummaging through his stuff. None of it can possibly actually _mean_ anything to the sort of person Alan’s starting to imagine his brother must be. 

There’s a sharp, heavy shard of anger in Alan’s chest, a growing certainty that there’s only one thing John cares about any longer.

There’s a soft chime from the comm on his wrist. “A-Alan? I’m ready for you again.”

“Yeah. Be there in a sec.”

A few more moments pass. He slams the locker shut.


	17. not quite their usual calibre of disaster

He’s something like forty feet under London, carefully drilling his way into an old, abandoned maintenance tunnel below the London Underground. He’s rigged up a Mole Pod, has a whole cavernous network of tunnels waiting for him, and the work feels good. It’s the sort of work Virgil likes best; deliberate, precise. The grind of the drill into old masonry is slow and sacrilegious—he’s tearing into brickwork laid centuries ago, churning up history on the point of a diamond edged drill bit. It puts him in a meditative headspace, thinking about the long-ago point in time when it was new, thinking about the darkness and the depths and the weight overhead, and how terrifying this place must have been, for the people who laid the masonry he’s tearing into chunks.

He decides he doesn’t really want to think about that, so he taps his fingers on the sash that crosses his chest and clears his throat.

“Hey, Al?”

“Yeah, Virg? Uh, Thunderbird 2. Status?”

“All good down here, Al. Just wanted to make some small talk.” Virgil reaches up to toggle on a display switch, pulls up Alan’s hologram in the center of the pod. He gives his little brother a fond smile and makes a mental note to get him in a headlock the next time they see each other. For the first time in years, it seems like this is going to be a matter of more than a few weeks, and this is the source of a melancholy sort of feeling. “If no one else has said it, Al, I’m really proud of you.”

Holograms don’t really blush, so if Alan’s gone beet red, it’s not really apparent. He’s maybe a slightly darker shade of blue. But Alan also does that sort of adolescent shrug of his shoulders that comes into play when he’s feeling embarrassed. “We’re _working_ , Virgil.”

“Yeah, I know, and that’s thanks to you.” He shrugs, his own off-handed mirror of Alan’s own gesture, unashamed of wearing his heart on his sleeve.

“You said small talk.”

Virgil chuckles. “Yeah, John always used to give me shit for getting maudlin on the clock. Sorry, Thunderbird 5.”

There’s been an unfortunate precedent being set, of not talking about John around Alan. The youngest stiffens, prickles, gets his back up any time their absent brother gets mentioned, and people are starting to pussyfoot around him. Virgil point-blank refuses to give into it. “How is it, up there? Lonely?”

Tiny and far away, Alan shrugs again. “Fine. It’s fine. Um. Don’t have much time to be lonely, Brains is still helping me, I’m still learning major systems. But I’m figuring it out. Oh, uh. Can I get an estimate of…of when you’re gonna punch through that wall? I’m supposed to load a 3D modeling program and I need to start putting in the rendering parameters.”

Virgil checks a few readouts, and then dials the horsepower up, the drill starts to whine sharp and high and the bite of the bit reverberates through his hands on the controls. He dials it back again, rechecks the readouts, and gauges the feel of the drill bit into the surface. “I’m gonna say I need about fifteen more minutes. Once I punch through I’m gonna set hooks on the interior edge and start pulling pieces loose so I can fit through.”

“FAB.” Alan pauses and then, with his tone deceptively neutral and not daring to suggest that he might be fishing for advice— “Gordon’s getting impatient, I think.”

Virgil makes a mental note to punch Gordon in the back of the head, next time he sees him. Not _hard_ or anything. “Yeah, he does that. Just remember, he won’t _actually_ do anything without your say-so. He’ll whine a lot and he’ll think he knows more than he does, and he’ll think he’s got a read on the situation, but he won’t actually _do_ anything.”

“Is he always such a—was he…with John. Did he always mouth off so much?” Alan’s not quite petulant, but Virgil can tell he’s annoyed.

Virgil sometimes wishes he could take the rest of the family aside and give a masterclass in _Getting Gordon_. It would smooth over a great deal of what seems like contrary abrasion. “Al, it’s not personal. Yeah, he was like this with John. Hell, I think it’s probably a good sign. He just likes to make sure all the angles get considered. And hey, sometimes he’s got a read on a situation that none of us would’ve thought of. If you don’t like the backtalk, mute his comm.”

It’s weird, having a younger brother instead of an older brother, up in orbit, ordering their missions and objectives. It’s funny, being reminded of John such a long, _long_ time ago. When he’d been just as new and nervous and uncertain and Alan. There’s a weird shock of deja vu, with what Alan asks next. “Could you…can you make him lay off, a little? I’m trying my best.”

It’s the same advice he gave John, way back when. It’s really the only thing you can do with Gordon. “Just gotta roll with it, Al. Keep giving him orders. Eventually he'll hear one that he likes, and then you'll hear him turn the attitude right around. He _is_ listening. Eventually it’ll click into place.”

Ahead of him, the drill bit jerks forward, breaks through the crust of centuries old brickwork, and now it’s back to business. “Just broke through, Thunderbird 5. I’ll be in in a couple more minutes, and I’ll be ready to feed you scanner data. Let me know when you’re ready for it.”

There’s a moment of silence and a soft sigh, before Alan’s tone regains its edge of professionalism. “FAB, Thunderbird 2.”

“Attaboy.”

* * *

It’s dark. It’s cold. There are a few million liters of water flooding a fifty meter section of the London Underground, courtesy of a burst water main. Gordon’s had to pick his way through near zero-visibility for the past six hours, assessing the structural integrity of the tunnel.

It’s _fantastic_ to be back at work again.

Gordon’s freezing cold, exhausted from the hours he’s spent in the tunnel’s depths, and he can’t see more than one or two feet in front of his face at any given moment, even with bright white LEDs flaring in front of him. He still catches himself grinning so wide his _face_ hurts. This is good. It’s been too long, and this is _great_. He’s got Virgil below him, clearing an old, disused section of rail tunnel to drain the currently flooded section of the Central Line. He’s got Alan, somewhere far overhead, digging up resources and working out potential solutions, clearing them with London Authorities.

It’s not quite their usual calibre of disaster. No life and limb at risk, but there’s the sanctity of the London Commute at stake, and hey, there’s a certain nobility in that. There’s a lot of political pressure to get it sorted out, and it had been International Rescue who had reached out to the powers that were, offering their services.

“Thunderbird 8, gimme a quick recap of what I’m supposed to be looking at—I might have that bricked up interior wall you were talking about, but I’m gonna need better light to be sure.”

“FAB, and quit calling me that.”

“Well, you’re sure as hell not Thunderbird _5_. I’ll call you what I want, squirt.”

“Ass.”

It’s still weird to have Alan’s voice filling up his helmet, rather than John’s. It’s weird to see his little brother rendered as an even littler version of his little brother, hanging in the darkness at the center of his vision.

Still, Alan’s got his work voice on. It’s not quite as clear and clipped as John’s always was, but he’s trying. “You should be able to see an arch, about one and a half meters tall. It’s an old maintenance tunnel, drains downward, and it _should_ be able to take the volume of water we’re dealing with.“

Gordon drifts to the bottom of the tunnel, carefully puts a hand on the wall and measures his way upward, hand over hand. The brickwork is rough beneath his fingers, and he follows the curve upward to a ridge of metal at the top edge. “Seems right. What’s the verdict; we drilling or blasting? You know _my_ vote.”

There’s a moment of radio silence in his ear, the soft fuzz of interference as Alan pulls up the relevant information. “Umm.”

“ _Umms_ are unprofessional, Thunderbird 8.”

“Gordon, _quit it_.”

Gordon grins at the irritation in Alan’s tone. “Look, as long as you’ve got Three frankensteined onto Five like some sort of freakish space-station-rocket-ship hybrid, I’m gonna call 'em how I see 'em. S’just _math_ , Al.”

Alan takes the high road and ignores him, answers the question that was asked. “They want us to drill. Virgil thinks it’s the safer bet, says ordinance might risk destabilizing the lower tunnel.”

In typical fashion, Gordon disagrees. “Gradual breach is gonna mean that lower tunnel floods at a rate we can’t control. Single blast sets the rate and then we know what we’re dealing with from the start. Did you model it?”

“Yeah, I did, and I think Virgil’s right. Projected rate of—“

“Did Brains check it over?”

“ _Yes_ , Gordon.”

“Only trying to have your back, little bro.”

There’s a soft, low scoffing noise from Alan and Gordon feels a twinge of guilt, maybe just a little bit too late. There’s still an edge to the ribbing between them, still a few things that haven’t quite settled. Alan’s been aboard TB5 for a week now. It’s a week and a half out from their clash in the lounge, and Gordon’s still sort of waiting for the dust to settle. Not that he’s apologized. Not to Alan and not to Kayo. He’s still not sure he’s got anything to apologize for, and anyway, the moment for it hasn’t come up. Almost immediately after their last conversation, Virgil had collared him to go fight brush fires in western Australia, a solid three days of fire and smoke to help burn the boredom out of him. The work had been hot, exhausting, and a welcome diversion from sitting around at home.

He clears his throat, tries to muster up some professionalism of his own, kicks himself off the wall and starts to make his way back up the tunnel, back to where it slopes upward into the nearest station. “Well, whatever we do, I need to set better lighting down here before I can do it. Let ‘em know I’m coming up, gotta swap in new air tanks anyway.”

“FAB.” Alan pauses and Gordon catches him muttering something under his breath and then the radio channel crackles clear again. “Uh, listen. I didn’t want to tell you, ‘cuz you’re being a real dick…but just because _you_ are is no reason _I_ should be…so, listen Gordon. Lady Penelope’s up there.”

Abruptly the twinge of guilt turns into a punch in the chest, a lurch of the heart that makes Gordon swallow. “Oh. Uh. Yeah? What’s, uh…did we call her? She knows me and Virg’re here. Right? I mean…TB2’s parked out at Heathrow. Kinda hard to miss. So she knows we’re here. Obviously.”

He must sound as flustered as he feels, because Alan’s voice in his ear is almost a little smug. “We didn’t call her. Apparently there’s some old tunnel under the Thames nearby, and there’s concerns it’s at risk from the flooding. It’s a newly declared World Heritage site, she’s giving an interview about IR.”

Gordon has to swerve abruptly as a piece of debris fills the space in front of him. “Right. Right, uh. Mmm.” That Thing he hasn’t apologized for is creeping out from the back of his brain, dragging doubt and anxiety with it. “Well. Still not supposed to talk to her, right? Scott’s orders. Thanks for the head’s up, I guess. I’ll steer clear.”

“Ask her about John.”

Gordon has to put on the brakes, even as cold and tired as he is, and even though the darkness up ahead is diminishing and he can see the slope of the tunnel floor in front of him. For the first time since he took over as mission command, Alan actually doesn’t sound like Alan. Alan sounds like he’s giving an _order_. “What, really?”

“She’ll talk to you if she’ll talk to anyone.”

He clears his throat, looks up at the greenish blue cast to the light of the water up ahead. He’d been hoping for a short breather, maybe some food, something hot to drink. Now he’s got a whole new sensation bubbling up in his heart, a whole other kind of hope, a whole bunch of _other_ things that he’s needed to say. “Okay. So we’re clear. This is _you_ , telling _me_ ; ‘Go talk to Penelope.’ Explicitly against Kayo’s warning and Scott’s orders, you’re telling me to talk to Penny. Alan? Uh, I mean, Thunderbird 5. Confirm?”

“ _Do it_ , Gordon.”

Gordon’s grin threatens to crack his faceplate. “FAB, Thunderbird 5.”


	18. damning as anything he's ever said

It’s not like she’s been waiting for him to resurface. It’s pure coincidence that she’s here, haute couture cut off at the knees by a pair of borrowed wellingtons. She makes the safety vest and the hardhat look _fantastic_ , at least. 

The station stop is damp, chilly. It’s late summer on the surface, but the volume of water in the tunnel seems to pull the heat from the air. White subway tiles glisten with the reflection of halogen lights off the surface of the dark water. Helmeted workers in boots, coveralls and bright orange vests call to each other.

Lady Penelope is here on behalf of World Heritage. Nominally, anyway. So she’d _happened_ to field questions about World Heritage and the leverage it had employed to involve an organization as famous as International Rescue for a matter so obviously municipal. These had been fended off with her usual elegant ease. The reporter who’d been doggedly attempting to back her into a corner has moved on to the representative from the London Underground, and is having considerably better success getting beneath _his_ skin than he'd had getting beneath hers.

So she’s wandered her way down to the safety barriers, set up by the flooded tunnel. So she’s professed a wide-eyed interest in the process and a sincere hope that everyone’s being looked after, and of course her _deepest_ thanks on behalf of London and World Heritage. So she’s ordered sandwiches and pastries and hot, sweet tea by the gallon, brought town to the tunnel for the teams working on the flood. So she’s made friends with the workers who are bustling about the tunnel. And _especially_ the officer in charge of the scene, a bluff, friendly man with an accent rather like Parker’s.

Or maybe it’s not actually friendship, only kindness, and it’s just that she misses Parker, off on the other side of the world, in the midst of his own assignment, the most secretive of secrets.

Maybe it’s not only Parker she misses, after a week and a half of chilly silence from her employers.

There’s a flash of blue beneath the halogen lights in the tunnel, and a flare of yellow. Penelope deliberately turns away, busies herself with a paper cup full of tea. Maybe she’s only hoping for a friendly word, just a polite hello. Maybe she knows it’s going to be awkward, and doesn’t really care, because she's better proofed against awkwardness than _he_ is.

She hears a splash as he breaks the surface, and a chorus of cheery hellos from the workmen on the surface. He makes friends easily, too.

Penelope’s got the helmet and the vest and the boots in common with everyone else here, but knows she stands out like a sore thumb. Knows it’s only a matter of time before he makes his way over.

She hadn’t been expecting him to make a beeline straight for her, and when she turns to casually check what’s going on at the water’s edge, Gordon’s already _right there_ , edging right up onto the border of her personal space. He’s got his suit loosened at the collar, his helmet pulled off and hanging in his hand. His blond hair is damp with sweat, humidity whorling it into curls and cowlicks. Penelope’s abruptly reminded that she’s in a pair of rubber boots and not her usual pump heels, and feels every centimeter of her smallness next to him.

For the barest moment, there’s an intensity to his eyes—looking her up and down the way he always does—that makes her regret everything she’s done to his family. Makes her think that politesse and a friendly word are out of the question, that Gordon’s got every right to be _furious_ with her, and that she’s going to hear about it. There’s a sudden, wild urge to apologize for what she’s done, before he can even get a word out. For everything, for what he knows about and what he doesn’t, yet. But he defies her expectations and there’s a sunshiney grin that belongs above ground, and not down here in the dark and shadowy underworld of London

“Howdy, Pen. What’s a lovely lady like you doing in a cistern like this?”

“Gordon,” she inclines her head and smiles her perfectly civil smile, the moment of anxiety past, and firmly back in control of the conversation. “Oh, you know. World Heritage. We’re perilously close to one of the first tunnels to cross beneath the Thames. It’s a very important site, and one I campaigned for personally.”

“Hope it’s not the one me and Virgil are gonna flood.”

Her laugh is similarly perfect, exquisitely modulated to the tone of the situation. “No, no, of course not. No fear of that, there’s been plenty of oversight on that front. Do you have everything you need? If there are any local resources you want secured, I’m sure I could—“

“Nah, we got it covered.” 

“Oh, of course. Naturally, of course you have.”

Gordon shrugs—or she thinks he shrugs, but it turns out he’s stretching, loosening sore muscles. He rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck, and then reaches past her to the table she’s had set up, practically groaning beneath the weight of donated food. He deliberates a moment, then snags a cherry turnover, takes a wolfish bite that takes half the thing with it. Another bite and it’s gone and he’s brushing pastry crumbs off on the front of his wetsuit, and then she has his full attention again. “So, Penelope.”

He pauses and there’s a certain settling of his gaze, a way his eyes narrow slightly as he seems to try and think of what he wants to say. Improbably she finds herself wanting to comment on how she’d wished he could have thought this much before speaking, back when she’d been shepherding him from interview to interview, plunking him in front of whatever camera happened to be handy. Instead she just looks up at him, all blue-eyed innocence, and says, “…yes?”

And suddenly there’s that sunshine grin again, brighter than it has any right to be, down here, and especially with what he says next. “Aw, the hell with it. Penny, I’ve got everybody telling me that you’re a—uh. That—that you lied to us, about John. Shut Kayo up in the Tower of London. That we can’t trust you, that you’re _up_ to something. Scott said not to talk to you. _Alan_ wants me to give you the third degree about John and what the hell _his_ deal is. Kayo’s still pretty damn mad, and I guess she’s got a right to be. If it’s all true—and y’know, I’ve been trying real hard, but I just can’t figure out why she’d wanna lie—so I guess it _is_. But whatever. Never mind what anybody else says. Whatever _this_ all is, it's just that you know more than you’re saying. Right?”

He’s _still_ grinning at her, even though it’s everything she didn’t want to hear, and she’s been rooted to the spot, frozen in her rubber boots. It’s almost unsettling, the fact that he _isn’t_ angry. He takes a step forward and his hands land on her shoulders, startlingly heavy and strong, though his grip is gentle. Her knees pick the wrong moment to get a little weak and she has to catch herself, has to blink at him, disbelieving. 

He’s still looking at her, bright brown eyes and crooked smile, as he announces. “Penny, I don’t _care_.”

“…I’m sorry?”

“I don’t care,” he says again, and then, damning as anything he’s _ever_ said— “I trust you. I don’t know what’s going on, with John or Kayo or whatever the hell else. _No_ goddamn idea. But I trust you. Whatever this is, I don’t give a shit. If you're keeping me---us. If you're keeping us out, it's gotta be for a reason. I think it's probably a good reason. I think maybe I don't need to know what it is. You’ve never…you’ve _always_ been on our side. Especially when it’s the big stuff, the stuff _we’re_ bad at. So whatever this is, you’re just doing your job.”

“Gordon,” she says, hotly, and then doesn’t know how to follow it. She hadn't expected the anger, but then, he's gone and betrayed her expectations. It’s tremendously unfair and she can feel her face growing warm, flushed. She’s _certainly_ not going to get emotional— _here_ , of all places, in a flooded underground station, surrounded by men in hard hats and with a reporter and cameraman lurking around—but she has to say _something_. “Stop this.”

Not _that_.

“Nah.”

“You don’t understand,” she protests, and hates how petty and feeble she sounds, saying it, hates how he doesn’t seem to care that it’s _true_.

Impossibly, his grin widens. His hands squeeze her shoulders for the briefest moment, and then drop to his sides again. She takes the opportunity to retreat a few steps back, glares at him. “Sure don’t. But hey, just ‘cuz I don’t understand something doesn’t make it…well, it doesn’t make it wrong. And I just don’t think you’d do anything really _wrong_ , Pen. Penny.”

“ _Lady Penelope._ ”

And he laughs at that and she _hates_ him for it. “Sure.”

She needs to disengage. This was a mistake. “I have to—“

That roll of his shoulders again. If she were sharper, she might remember it’s a sort of nervous tic he has; a way he gets a little unsettled when he’s not one hundred percent sure about what he’s saying. “Yeah, me too.”

There’s a last word to be had here, and she doesn’t know what it is. Penelope finds herself casting around for the right sort of etiquette to bring into play, when someone’s seized one of the most integral threads of your nature, and _pulled_ , apparently indifferent to whatever comes unraveled in the process.

Gordon, once again, decides to spare her. He gives her another one of his quick, up and down glances, and then puts his fingers to his lips and whistles. This catches the attention of _everybody_ on the platform—but most notably the cameraman, attached to the reporter she’d so deftly stepped around.

He steps, very deliberately, across the border of the space she’s put between them. And then—remembering better than she does a moment just like this one—he catches her hand for a moment, and kisses her on the cheek. 

He’s already stepped away by the time her fingertips touch her face. He’s already halfway across the platform and giving her a cheerful wave, calling over his shoulder, “See you around, Lady P! I gotta go see a man about some glyceryl trinitrate!”


	19. what feels like so much failure

There’s plenty for Scott to be frustrated by, but at present, Kayo’s pretty sure it’s just the fact that he’s thrown out his back. Brains has just finished checking him over, provided pain meds. When Kayo had called down to find out how Scott was doing, Brains had told her that it’s going to be twenty-four hours of ice and rest, so she’s waiting in the kitchen to provide the former and enforce the latter.

The elevator up from the lab chimes and as the door slides open, Kayo catches the briefest glimpse of Scott before he knows he’s being looked at, wearing his age and injury plainly and without the usual stubborn set of his shoulders, tall and straight in leadership.

The joke she wants to make about old age and throwing one’s back out suddenly seems a bit unkind. Scott looks up and his posture changes, back to the usual standard, tall and straight. The lines she imagined at the corners of his eyes are just a grateful smile as accepts the towel-wrapped icepack she offers. “Thanks, Kayo.”

“Would’ve thought you’ve had enough ice on it already,” she jokes instead, making reference to the fall into a snowdrift that had caused the damage in the first place.

“Funny,” Scott answers, wry and wincing, making his way across the kitchen and easing himself onto a bar stool in front of the kitchen island. “Good job today, by the way,” he adds, leaning an elbow on the counter and flicking his way through the embedded screen, looking for something to eat. “Thanks for coming along.”

Kayo joins him, shrugs modestly at the praise. “Was no problem. Glad I could help.”

They’ve spent the day helping with avalanche prevention measures in Alaska. Not their usual speed, but it’s still a little much to ask Alan to juggle more than one assignment at once, and it’s easy enough to take direction from local authorities, just to have something to do. They’d been hovering over a particularly tricky section of terrain, Scott had let out a little too much slack on the line of cable he’d lowered himself on, placing a charge for controlled detonation. Even just watching the impact while spotting for him from Thunderbird 1, Kayo had flinched bodily. Then she’d set the auto-pilot and gone rappelling down herself to make sure he was all right. Probably he would have been fine, by himself, but it has been an uncomfortable reminder of the possibility that he might not have been; that they’re currently undermanned.

Scott chuckles and puts in an order for scrambled eggs, bacon and pancakes. “Next time I’ll make less of an ass of myself.”

“You were fine. We got the job done, anyway.” It had been strange to realize, but she doesn’t actually see the boys at work very often. Her job has always had her on the periphery, hearing about their work second hand, or reviewing mission footage. Tagging along with Scott, taking a break from her (currently fruitless) search for John—it had been a new feeling. A  _good_  feeling, getting to do something proactive after what feels like so much failure. Kayo wonders if Scott had known how helpful it would be, getting to be out in the field, even if she’d only been along for backup. So she means it when she says, “Thanks for letting me come.”

There’s a shuffle and a slightly pained grunt as Scott reaches over to put his hand on her shoulder, classic Big Brother. “Any time, Kayo. Seriously, it was a big help to have you along. The rate things are going, there’s probably gonna  _be_  a next time.”

He means it as a compliment, means it to build her up, make her feel good about her contribution. Fearless Leader, Team Captain. But it stings, a little. Reminds her of the reason she’s needed to tag in as back-up in the first place. The readout on the automated kitchen module across the room indicates that it’ll be ten minutes until two piping hot servings of breakfast-for-dinner are ready. It’s three in the morning, dark and quiet on the island, and Scott’s not going anywhere. It’s as good a time for this conversation as any.

“I’m sorry I haven’t found him.”

Immediately she wants to rewind back a few seconds and say it again, say it with a louder voice, a firmer tone, and more remorse than what sounds—to her ears, at least—like self-pity.  _I’m sorry I haven’t found him, but in my defense, he’s a fractured, frightened, neurotic bastard with a stolen super computer and a genius IQ. Besides that, he doesn’t_   ** _want_**   _to be found, and probably especially not by me._

These are all excuses and not reasons.

So instead she continues, hastily, before Scott can say anything, “And don’t say it’s okay, because it’s  _not_. I should have—I had the chance to throw my lot in with Lady Penelope. She offered to tell me what was going on, but the condition was that I’d have to lie to the rest of you, the same way she has. I could have found out what all this  _is_ , and I—“

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

Kayo balks at that, at the way his tone’s softened slightly, taken on a gentle, conciliatory note. She can’t help feeling defensive, childish as she says, “I could’ve handled it.”

“I’m not saying you couldn’t have. I’m saying I’m glad you didn’t.” Scott’s voice has grown firmer now, convicted. “You told me what she said. About a greater good, about needing John to do something she can’t—whatever road she’s sent him down, whatever this is, I’m glad you’re not in it any deeper than the rest of us. You’ve been part of our family for longer than Penelope’s been in our lives, and I’m glad you chose not to lie to us. Really, Kayo. It means a hell of a lot.”

Her cheeks flush warm, a mix of sentiment and the simmering frustration she’s felt ever since she first slammed the door of FAB1. The kitchen’s beginning to fill the smoky smell of bacon and her stomach growls, prompts a grin from Scott. She sighs ruefully, stretches forward to rest her forearms on the counter, and her chin on her arms. “Still wish I knew how to do more.”

Scott chuckles and shifts in his seat again, adjusts his hold on the ice pack he’s pressed against his back. “Well,  _that’s_  just the family baggage. You’re  _really_  assimilating now. Only took fifteen years.”

Kayo scoffs. “Oh, please, I’ve been up to my neck in this family since I was nine. Turns out I’m just resistant to your collective damage.”

Scott fires right back, and crosses a line that no-one else has actually crossed yet. “Wouldn’t go bragging about general emotional resilience when you’ve got an  _actual_  supervillain in your family tree.”

Kayo pushes herself up from the counter and rocks backward in her seat, claps a hand over her heart and pretends to reel from the insult, “Low  _blow_ , fearless leader!” she groans theatrically.

Immediately he backs off, sobers, though she’d been very sure to play up the melodrama, to let him know it was all right. “…was it? Ahh, sorry. Sorry, Kayo. That was in poor taste.”

She shrugs and gives him a faint smile, sardonic. “It’s really not. I mean, it’s not as though it was a surprise to  _me_. I’ve had far more time to come to terms with who my uncle is. He’s not who I knew from childhood. He’s not my father’s brother any longer, he’s become someone else. It’s been a very long time since I felt anything for the man he used to be.”

“I can’t even imagine.” Scott falls silent, grows thoughtful, and Kayo wonders if he’s  _trying_ to imagine. She’s suddenly seized by guilt, and the sinking feeling that maybe it’s not actually as hard to imagine as Scott had expected. “… What’s it like, to have a member of the family just peel off and go rogue?”

Kayo already has her answer at the ready, on the tip of her tongue, quick and sincere with her reassurance, “Well, it’s nothing like what gone on with John. It was gradual. Over years and years and years of a lot of small bad things became the seeds of much bigger bad things. Greed, more than anything, I think. Jealousy, my dad says—sometimes—though he never says of what. John’s not like that. He just isn’t.”

“How does your dad feel about that?” Scott pauses for a moment and seems to look at Kayo in a different light. “Do you still talk to your dad?” he asks, almost hesitant, as though this is a question he should know the answer to.

It isn’t, really. The answer is yes, of course, nearly every day. Not a day goes by that there isn’t at least an email or a quick text exchange between Kayo and her father. More often her dad will call, leave her a message if he’s going to be out of touch for any length of time, and Kayo will do the same. But embedded as she is in a family who’ve lost their own patriarch—it had always just seemed like something to keep private, sensitive and in deference to her brothers and their loss. “Yes, I still talk to my dad.”

Scott nods, still thoughtful. “Of course you do. I guess I just hadn’t thought about it—been such a long time since…well. Does he still… uh. Man. This is the kind of thing I should really know, but does he still work for us?”

Kayo can’t help but smile at this, because it’s so exactly like her father to obfuscate who he works for, to the point where even his employer isn’t certain. “Not any longer. He may still hold a contract, but I don’t think it’s active. He’s been freelance for the past few years, lots of consulting. And he has his own projects. I’m doing his old job, or part of it, anyway. I keep him informed.”

“So he knows about what’s… with John, and everything. I mean, of course he does. Even if you hadn’t told him, we haven’t exactly been quiet about it. Gave an interview about just how sick he’d been, trying to let him know that we’re worried about him, wherever he is. But you’ve told him more of the details, I guess? I mean, I suppose what I’m asking—“

Scott’s interrupted by the chime of the kitchen module from across the room. “Hold that thought,” Kayo tells him, and gets up to retrieve two plates, heaped high with perfectly uniform pancakes, bacon cooked to crisp perfection, and fluffy mounds of scrambled eggs. She slides these onto the counter and then detours over to the fridge for orange juice and syrup. Scott’s gotten quiet again by the time she sits down, chopping his pancakes into wedges with the side of his fork, apparently not in any hurry to abandon his ice pack. Kayo reaches over and does it for him, then passes the syrup over. “There.”

“Thanks.”

She starts in on her eggs, and for a few minutes hunger is more important than conversation. Kayo’s moved on to her bacon and is still waiting patiently for Scott to come back around to his question. He’s halfway done picking through his pancakes before he heaves a sigh, doesn’t bother to cover the melancholy note in his tone. “Must be nice, just calling your dad up whenever.”

There’s a reason she’s private about it, her ongoing connection to her father—but there’s another side to the coin. Kayo nods. “Yeah, it is. Well, you know my dad. Down to earth. Sensible. Lot of specialized paramilitary knowledge.“ She lets the suggestion hang in the air for a few minutes before prodding the thought a little more deliberately, because it’s late and they’re both tired and Scott’s brain gets a little fuzzy on an excess of carbs. ”—you know,  _you_  could call him. If you wanted. For advice about the whole thing, or just to talk. He’s a good listener.“

”…you don’t think he’d mind?“

Kayo hides her smile in a long draught of orange juice and then reaches for her phone, still stashed in a holster at her hip. Scott’s probably got contact information of his own available somewhere, but it’ll route Scott through several offices and proxies. In Kayo’s phone it’s a direct line to his personal phone, under the heading  _Dad_. "Honestly, Scott, I think he’d be happy to help.”


	20. an aggressive silence

The inside of the dark car is suddenly filled with a burst of bright, candy-coated pop music, a sweet soprano trills the chorus in some non-English language, before Kyrano taps an earpiece and takes the call.

“Hello, pumpkin,” he greets his daughter, warm and affectionate. “Late there, isn’t it?”

“Not too bad,” his daughter answers, laconic as always, and right to the point. “Scott wants a word.”

“Oh, of course. Give me one moment, and then put him on.”

The call goes from his earpiece to the car’s speakers, fills the whole of the small space with Scott’s voice. “Hello?”

“Good evening, Scott. Good to hear from you again.”

“Sir. Likewise.” There’s that stiff formality from Scott, hard to say whether owing to the span of time since they last talked, or just the way Scott’s always gotten a little nervous, a little bit awkward whenever talking to Kyrano.

Scott will attribute this shift in attitude to deference and respect for his father’s bodyguard and head of security. Kyrano attributes it to the fact that Scott’s the only one of his brothers who’s ever seen him moved to actual violence on his father’s behalf, a long ago incident with a protester who’d jumped a barricade at a press conference and been dispatched. This is a polite way of expressing the fact that Kyrano had broken a man’s neck.

“What can I do for you, Scott?”

The younger man clears his throat, and despite the way Kyrano’s been nothing but genial and wouldn’t be offended in the least by a bit more familiarity, Scott stays businesslike, professional. “Kayo tells me she’s talked to you about John. I suppose I was hoping I might ask you for your read on the situation.” There’s a brief pause and then, hastily, “Not that we haven’t been—not that Kayo hasn’t been up to the task. She’s been—really, I don’t know what we’d do without her, sir. Especially after what happened with…uh, with the Lady Creighton-Ward.”

It’s possible that this is still a sore point with Kayo, but Kyrano had considered a case of a lesson learned, and knows it for a mistake that Tanusha won’t make again. “I know what my daughter’s been up against, Scott. There’s no need to flatter her to me on my account.”

Scott coughs again, a gruff little  _ahem_  and it might be that he’s slightly embarrassed. “Well, she’s sitting right here, sir, and I really haven’t thanked her properly for everything she’s done.”

Kyrano chuckles at that and imagines Tanusha, punching Scott in the shoulder for the compliment. It’s possible this is an outdated memory of his daughter, possibly she’s grown out of the affectation of a locker-room style, boy’s club familiarity, entrenched within her second family. “Suppose you tell me more about what’s happened.”

“Uh. Well, I’m not sure how much Kayo’s told you already—“

Scott leads into the conversation, but he’s hedging. Kyrano cuts him off, brusque, “From what I understand, the situation has its roots in an incident aboard Thunderbird 5. Tanusha kept me updated while John was in the hospital, I put her onto a few resources in Zurich. I’d been in informal contact with some old TI contacts during your time in New York, and I followed Gordon’s press tour—pass on my compliments, by the way. He handles himself very well in the public-eye. Your father would’ve been proud.”

“Thank you, I’ll tell him.” There’s a note of pride in Scott’s tone, standing in for his father. And then, with the professional edge to his voice softening, he goes on, “Everyone’s been…I mean, what happened with John, with TB5—this is probably the hardest thing that’s happened to us, since Dad. But Virgil and Gordon and Alan—Kayo too, like I said—We all spend so much time pushing outward, sometimes I worry we forget how to look inward, look after each other. I think—I think maybe if we’d been a bit…a bit better, I guess, a bit more conscientious about pulling John into that loop…maybe none of this would’ve happened.”

There’s the keystone to the whole conversation, the thread to start to pull at, because so far Scott’s just been dawdling around the point. It seems plain that Scott’s needed someone to talk to, though he doesn’t quite seem to know how to go about it. Kyrano gives him a firm, deliberate prod, “Tell me about John.”

Scott’s answering laugh is a short, sharp sound and any illusion of formality shatters. “Oh  _god_ , where to start.”

_There_  it is. “How was his health?”

There’s a pause and then Scott’s careful, almost guarded, as he says, “Physically, he was on the mend. We were all told to keep it quiet, but uh, if Kayo had told you about his…umm. About the exact, uh, nature of his illness—“

“Malaria.”

This time the silence seems to have a sort of sardonic weight to it, “…right. I’m starting to wonder if we shouldn’t just go public with that, given how often it gets repeated back to me from sources I don’t expect.”

“Neither here nor there, at this point. He’d been treated and he was recovering. Other than that—?”

Maybe there’s a tremor in Scott’s voice, maybe he sounds younger than he has in years. Maybe it’s just late and he’s tired and talking about a reality that’s been slowly wearing him down. “Well, other than the way he nearly died alone in space with nothing and no one there for him? Other than  _that_  hellish nightmare—in the aftermath, trying to help him through it; he scared the  _shit_  out of me, being as broken as he was. It can’t have been out of nowhere, but I never accounted for it. Just…it’s _John_ , you know? John doesn’t get—he’s not supposed to—“ Scott breaks off and there’s a frustrated sigh. “I never thought it’d be  _him_  who went through something like this. Alan’s who I always worried about. Gordon, maybe—but you can’t keep Gordon down, he pops back up like a cork. There’s a slim possibility that Virgil’s a ticking emotional time-bomb, but I really doubt it.” Another silence, self-recriminating. “John, though. I should’ve  _known_  this, about John.”

“You’re not you’re brother’s keeper.”

This is answered by a long, shaky sigh. “…I hope you don’t mean I’m the Cain to his Abel.”

For some reason Kyrano finds this funny and chuckles to himself. “No, nothing as melodramatic as that. I mean what I said. Your brother made his own choices, and I’ve been told about everything that was done to help him. You haven’t let anyone down, Scott. Sometimes these things fall beyond our reach.”

Kyrano’s a father, if not Scott’s father, and maybe that’s what’s been missing. So often it falls to Scott, to say the thing that needs saying. Very rarely do people say the things that  _Scott_ needs to hear. “I want my brother back.”

“I know you do. Are you asking for my help, with that?”

The pause is brief, and it’s hard not to hear the lump in Scott’s throat, the emotion that chokes his voice, “Yes. Please, yes. I don’t—people have lied to us. People we trusted. John’s…there’s something John cares about more than I can even understand, because I can’t imagine anything being important enough to put the rest of us through something like this. And if I can’t—if I can’t get my head around why he’d do this, then there’s no way I can figure out  _what_  he’ll do, or how far he’ll go…or where, or if we’re ever going to see him again.”

“Let’s not proceed to that extreme, just yet.” Kyrano pauses, and then with a note of sympathy in his tone, “You sound tired and I’ve heard you boys are back to work. Leave this with me and get some rest, I’ll be in touch again in twelve hours.”

It’s probably been a while since anyone’s given Scott an order. He seems almost pathetically grateful to be told what to do. “Yessir. Thank you, Kyrano.”

“Take care, Scott.”

The call disconnects. The inside of the dark car is filled with an aggressive silence, the sort that’s slowly filled by all the sounds of a fast car on the Autobahn—the hum of the tires on the road, the wind over the hood, the low growl of the engine. When John clears his throat—stops pretending with every ounce of will that he doesn’t actually exist, as though the slightest sound or movement or hint of his presence in the passenger seat next to Kyrano would give up the whole game—it’s been a long enough stretch that his voice sounds loud, awkward in his ears, “Not sure why you felt  _that_  was necessary.”


	21. got a kind of awful logic to it

Kyrano’s hands are firmly at ten and two, and they’re on their way from Berlin down to Munich, practically flying up the A9. They drive at a speed that has John’s hands clenched in fists on his knees, his back pressed tight to the passenger’s seat, vaguely motion-sick. The tension relaxing out of him just makes him feel weak and nauseous, as the lights along the dark highway flash overhead, the puddle of the headlights in front of the car continue to swallow up the apparently endless highway. The echo of Scott’s voice still has him feeling all twisted up and guilty inside.

“I was curious what you would do,” Kyrano remarks, in response to John’s comment. “You were free to speak up at any time.”

John swallows, hard, and exhales a slow, deliberate breath. “So were  _you_.”

“I was perfectly well-aware of what  _I_  was going to do.”

“…lie to my brother, you mean.”

“I would be thoroughly amused to hear you attempt to scold me about anything whatsoever, John Tracy. Go  _right_  ahead.”

This isn’t a verbal sparring match John’s well-positioned to win and he doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead he falls silent, props an elbow against the car door and rests his face against his hand. He stares fixedly out the window and keeps silent, hopes that the concern Kyrano’s professed for his health is enough to let him feign sleep. There’s some small consolation in the form of simmering, low-level malice being muttered in his left ear.

EOS doesn’t especially care for Kyrano.

“I could,” she tells him, “override the manual controls, pull this car to the shoulder, and blow the air bag in his face. If you get out and run northward, there’s a—“

. - N - O - .

First finger on his right hand is a dot, third is a dash, the magnets in the tips respond to quick taps on the metal of his seat belt buckle. It’s dark in the car, but he still keeps his hand carefully out of sight, twitches his fingers only slightly to tap out his answers. Kyrano’s eyes are fixed on the road, but he’s  _preternaturally_  observant, and John’s not ready for him to know about EOS.

“Why not? I don’t like this. Tokyo to Moscow, Moscow to Berlin, and now who  _knows_  where. The GPS says Munich, but I don’t trust it. He  _trapped_  you and now we’re in his control. This is a blood relation to the man who tried to kill you. How do we know we aren’t about to be delivered to the Hood again?”

. - C - A - N - . - T - R - U - S - T- . H - I - M - .

John doesn’t mention that he’s too tired to bail out of a car on the side of a German Autobahn, at midnight, and make a break from probable safety into dubious freedom. He also glosses over the fact that he sincerely doubts an airbag to the face would be enough to stop Kyrano; that pursuit would be swift and apprehension almost certain. John’s not really in the mood to be tackled into a ditch by a small Malaysian.

“I have no data on him. The name Kyrano returns only files that are listed as sealed, and stored as hard copies. I gather he’s an associate of your father’s. Is he taking us to Jeff Tracy?”

. - N - O - . - T - O - . - D - O - C - T - O - R - .

There’s a long silence in his ear, and he can see her starting to pull up various biometric readouts, starting to populate the field of his vision with a ridiculous amount of data, everything she’s tracked since the pacemaker was first installed. The field of text precipitates a giddy swoop of nausea, vertigo. Irritably he swipes his hand in front of his face, clears all of it.

. - D - O - N . T - . - C - A - R - S - I - C - K - .

“I’m sorry.” Her voice is small, contrite, and John wonders if the terseness in the way his fingers had twitched and tapped out the reprimand had translated. He wants to talk to her, wants to apologize—but to tell her that he’s just tired and heartsick and anxious wouldn’t serve anything, would only make her worry, and would take too long, besides. She falls silent and John imagines her plumbing through the same data she’d tried to show him. He doesn’t like to think about what she’ll find.

“Are you all right, John?”

This is Kyrano, presumably reacting to the way John’s just slapped the empty air in front of his face, apparently startled awake. “…fine. Sorry.”

“An hour out, and there’s a room booked at a hotel in Munich. I hope you’re feeling better. I apologize for the necessity of all this travel. A quiet night will help.”

“I’m fine.”

Kyrano’s the consummate bodyguard, and he’s probably about as much of a paramedic as Virgil or Gordon. The likelihood of anything escaping his notice is perishingly small, especially considering what had happened in the safe house. It’s the reason they’re on their way to see a doctor. They’ve crossed two continents because apparently the list of doctors Kyrano trusts is a short one, and the nearest one is a German cardiologist.

For the first time since Tokyo, there’s a moment in which Kyrano doesn’t seem absolutely in control. He seems to have put very careful thought into what he says as he asks, “If my brother’s done something to you, John, would you be willing to tell me what it was?”

John doesn’t answer, mostly because he’s trying to imagine what he would say, trying to follow the thread back through everything that’s happened to where he would need to start. He doesn’t want to talk about EOS, but the whole thing hinges on her existence—on what he’d been willing to do to save her.

Kyrano must mistake his silence—or perhaps he understands it better than John does himself—because his tone is gentle when he asks again, “Have you had anyone to talk to, John? I understand you had contact with the Lady Creighton-Ward.”

“I’m fine.” He says it again, just because it’s the last thing he’d said and it seems like it’s still salient. “It’s fine. I’m all right, really.”

“With due respect, I don’t believe you.”

John’s starting to scramble, internally, for something to say, something to fend off further probing, some excuse not to be subjected to an interrogation about what happened in Auckland—in San Jose—in Vegas after that, and just everything since. He hasn’t been alone. He’s had someone to talk to. Casting about, John seizes on the first marginally true fact he comes up with and says, “—you remind me of him.”

John doesn’t mean it as an insult, finds himself hoping he hasn’t given offense. He’s known Kyrano since he was a child, and he’s not afraid of him, even knowing who his brother is; even starting to see the similarities. Kyrano’s gaze stays fixed on the road ahead. Possibly his foot falls a little heavier on the gas pedal, but his tone remains even as he answers, “Yes, I could understand that. Insofar as the world can be considered to have sides, one of the only significant differences between my brother and I is the sides we’ve chosen.”

The shiver that goes through him, cold and electric, is probably just owing to the efficiency of the car’s air conditioning, to the chill of the air blowing against his face. “That…that’s—it seems like that isn’t something that makes me feel much better.”

“It’s perhaps not the sort of thing that should.”

He still doesn’t want to talk about it, but it’s crept up on him sideways, some deep, desperate need to confess what he’s done and what had happened because of it. “I guess he wanted to kill me.” The thread of the conversation continues to spool out, out of his control and he can’t help continuing, “He wanted to get my dad’s attention. Malaria. I didn’t…I mean, obviously, I didn’t know my Dad was still around to find out about anything happening to one of us, but that—that’s got a kind of awful logic to it, doesn’t it? I suppose that’s the sort of thing that would get his attention. Kill me with the disease he cured.”

EOS is in his ear again, protective, “You don’t need to talk about this with him. John? You don’t have to tell him anything.”

But Kyrano’s jaw has tightened ever so slightly and there’s a perceptible increase in their speed. The speedometer ticks up past 135 kmph. John’s fingers tighten on the armrest and for all his perception, Kyrano seems not to notice. “It will mean next to nothing, but I  _am_  sorry, John. I’m sorry for everything he’s done to you, and to your family.”

The fact that he would preface it with an awareness of how little the apology actually means stirs up a flare of anger, the sort of feeling he’s been keeping shut down tight, closed off and boxed up as non-productive, unhelpful. He can’t seem to help what spews out of him next, and the words taste like heat and blood, all tangled up with the memory of being deathly, feverishly sick, spitting red pearls into TB5’s interior, “…and what  _you’ve_  done? And Penelope? And Lee Taylor? And my _father_? The list of people lying to us keeps getting longer, and you’ve got the nerve to suggest your apology could mean anything at  _all_?”

“John—“

He wishes the comparison between Kyrano and his brother hadn’t been drawn, because now his brain has helpfully started drawing all the parallels. The most salient of which seems to be that he’s been here before, been in the thrall of someone who’s long-term aims and interests he isn’t sure of, “—what do you want from me, anyway? Where are we going, why am I here? If you wanted to send me home, you would’ve sent me home.”

“You’ve been alone in the world before now, and from here on I intend to keep you close. You need to see a doctor. After that, I’ll tell you more about—“

“If  _that_  was all you wanted, there are doctors in Tokyo. Why would we need to—“

Kyrano’s voice takes on a certain sternness, a tone that might be warning John to lose the attitude, “Circumstances have changed. The time it would take for me to find and vet a doctor for you to see in Tokyo would have been time in which we would have been vulnerable.”

“To  _what_?”

"Yesterday, my brother was broken out of a GDF prison. I don’t know where he is, but I’ve got reason to believe he’s going to be after  _you_. If not you, then your father. Regardless, the situation needs tighter control, and you’re not safe out in the world, ignorant of my brother’s movements.”

If it was a lie, it was a lie of omission, a truth that Kyrano had held back, possibly for good reason. Time seems to shrink down, and then stretch out moment to moment. John doesn’t want to be frightened. More than anything else, he just wants to be calm and quiet and still and not stray into that newly terrifying place where his heart seizes in his chest, skips and palpitates and fluttering, necessitates EOS’ intervention, jolting electrical impulses back into the correct rhythm.

It feels like a lot longer than the fifteen seconds it has been before he hears the words, “John?”

They both say it, but EOS’ voice in his ear is sharper than Kyrano’s gentle concern. The way John looks from the outside mustn’t be worthy of Kyrano’s concern, but then, EOS has the inside track, has all the biometric data that Kyrano can’t possibly perceive. She’s the software onboard the hardware, the answer to Kyrano’s question:  _what has my brother done to you?_

Reached out and closed a fist around John’s heart, is what. Even if the Hood no longer has control, he’s left his mark. Like the hand around his throat that John still feels sometimes, closing tight around his windpipe, bruising, crushing the breath out of him, late at night. Invisible, undetectable, the damage done. Threads of metal punched through his skin, plunged into his veins and threaded through to his heart, tearing and punching and scarring; doing the damage to justify their presence.

So the Hood hasn’t succeeded in killing him. Maybe he hasn’t quite failed yet, either, maybe the mechanism of action is just different from what it was meant to be. John Tracy’s life and death exist in a Schrödinger state of superposition, and the duality won’t collapse unless observed.

If it happens, when it happens, dead is dead. The end is more important than the means.

The car swerves sharply to the side of the road and Kyrano _yells_ , startled as control of the vehicle is taken over. The inertia catches John in the chest and he’s oddly aware of the way his seat belt presses tight across his chest, keeps him from falling forward, even as the dark interior of the car darkens further and EOS’ voice fills the car, pure command, and the last thing John hears, “Pull over.  _Help him_.”


	22. John’s games always looked like work

If it was the Devil’s greatest trick to convince the world of his non-existence, then it’s possible that John’s become a practicing Satanist in the time since he’s been gone.

Not, of course, that Alan had actually expected it to be easy.

If black magic runs on blood, then he’s scraped plenty of it off the geodesic inside of TB5’s commsphere. Maybe he should have kept some instead of packing it as a biohazard and dumping it with the rest of the trash, and worked some of his own voodoo. He could have made a little copy of John and then jammed a needle through it; pinned him to some easily accessible point on the map. Home, preferably.

Needless to say, Alan hasn’t found his brother.

The station’s up and running, all its bright lights, all its quiet sounds, all its quirks and unexpected idiosyncrasies; all these things that remind Alan of John. The world’s largest hamster wheel is back in operation. Alan’s jogged a few laps of it, just to try it out It’s harder than he imagined it would be, even only running at the equivalent of Earth gravity.

It turns out that’s not the only thing John made look easy, because now Alan’s learned what might be his brother’s very biggest secret.

It’s all just  _games_.

Games played on a one to one scale with reality, games played with lives, games with four Thunderbirds as the game pieces, but still. Games.

If Alan and John have computers in common in the complex five-way venn diagram that represents brotherhood, then maybe they’ve also got games. Only, Alan’s games aren’t John’s games, and are so different in genre and philosophy that it’s hard to draw that comparison at all.

Because Alan’s games occupy a visceral, immediate headspace, the someone-else’s-eyes view of the first person shooter, the situational awareness of the platformer, the twitchy combo-breaking response-time of the arcade fighter. The flight-sim. Alan’s games are about action and reaction, about honing his reflexes, hand-eye coordination—about doing all the things that his job  _demands_ , only minus all the real-life consequences. Alan’s games feel like games.

Apparently unbeknownst to anyone else, John’s packed up  _his_ games and crammed their architecture into TB5. It’d had been apparent from the very first second that Alan picked a module to try out, and the program loads up an interface so familiar that he’d had to double check he had the right one. After that, he almost couldn’t help gawking at the obvious parallels between work and play. John’s games are all about real time strategy, resource management. Risk/reward calculations, evolving scenarios. John’s games—even in far away memories of sitting in his big brother’s lap in front of a tripled array of holoscreens, watching John page through a spreadsheet at the same time as managing some impossibly complex, if imaginary, space battle—John’s games always looked like  _work_.

In the middle of John’s custom operating system, with its elegant and clever UI; in a real time representation of all the myriad different elements that come into play when the words “We’ve got a situation” get said—Alan’s shocked to find that it’s all incredibly nostalgic, and furthermore, incredibly easy to translate.

So he’s better at this job than Scott, Virgil or even Gordon give him credit for. Kayo might be the only one in his corner, but that might just be her Big Sister Complex, kicked into overdrive. Alan’s the only one who’s actually younger than Kayo is, and she’s always seemed to like having a little brother better than she likes having big brothers—even if Gordon’s only a few weeks older than she is, and infinitely less mature.

For the first time in  _years_ , Alan has a bedtime again. A mandatory eight hours of sleep, and Scott’s not pulling his punches about enforcing it. Brains still has administrator permissions for TB5 from the ground, and he’ll prevent Alan from calling anything in during the hours when he’s supposed to be resting.  _John_  always got to set his own schedule. John would run dispatch for stretches of eighteen, twenty, twenty-four— _thirty_  hours. Probably this isn’t actually true. Maybe this is just what Alan thinks he remembers; making something superhuman out of John.

Whatever’s actually true about John, it’s at least a fact that he had needed to sleep  _sometime_. Alan’s dimmed down the lights, the station’s running quiet and dark, and he’s lying flat on his back on John’s bed.

It’s actually surprising how comfortable this is, and how well it suits Alan, with his preference for sleeping on the floor. The slow roll of the gravity ring pulls him tight against the firm, flat surface, padded just enough to keep him from lying on bare plastic; not that he wouldn’t have been perfectly content with just bare plastic. Alan stares up at the patch of ceiling overhead and doesn’t want to think about his brother, and how often he must have stared up at this same tangle of wires and cables around an empty patch of ceiling.

Except—

In the middle of this mess is an empty patch of ceiling—only squinting at it now, Alan realizes it’s not actually empty. What he’d at first mistaken for a smudge of discoloration is actually a small, square patch of text, neatly printed. It’s not a label, but black marker on the surface, letters too little to read while lying down. He gets up, halfway crouches on the bed, and peers up at the inscription.

_Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;  I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night._

Oh.

That isn’t  _fair_.

It’s not fair because  _now_  Alan’s sitting on his brother’s bunk, looking upward at these lines of poetry and imagining what it would have taken to move John to a gesture like this. He’s imagining his brother’s first lonely night aboard Thunderbird 5, high above the Earth, far,  _far_  away from his family.  _Fearful_. It’s almost impossible to imagine a version of John that could be frightened of his ship, the space station he’d loved with the whole of his heart and soul. Alan imagines his brother staring up at words he’s written too small to read, but still there as a reminder of a mantra to repeat to himself in his head or his heart.

Alan shifts to the edge of the bed and deliberately focuses his gaze downward, at the earth spinning below his feet. He tries to shake himself free of his brother’s memory, the ghost of the long-gone young man who would have written poetry to himself on a ceiling no one else ever saw.

He stares down at the surface of the world for what seems like a long time, before cursing under his breath and pushing himself to his feet. He’s not tired, but he catches himself stifling a yawn as the doors open in front of him, grumbling and grousing.

Distantly, Alan intends to take a look at the globe in the secondary command sector, take another crack at narrowing down a set of parameters to try and find some trace of his brother, but as he crosses the threshold, something strikes him as odd. Maybe he’s finally starting to get used to the station’s hundreds of small sounds, humming and whirring and vibrating softly, that he notices the one that’s out of place.

The whirr of a camera follows along behind him, wheels spinning in the track that runs along the ceiling. Suspicious, Alan turns to look up, to squint at the white ringed lens and, haloed by bright LEDs in the dim light of the gravity ring. Not abnormal, in and of itself, but the station’s on low power for the night, the cameras aren’t  _supposed_  to be following him.

The camera stops and the focus moves in and out, gives Alan a distinct feeling of deja vu, though he’s not the one this happened to last. Something makes his breath catch, makes him swallow as he stares at the camera, takes a few steps forward and really  _peers_  into the lens. He doesn’t know what compels him to say it, but then, there’s no one around to hear him if he’s about to make a fool of himself, “TB5, this is Alan Tracy. Uh. EOS. Are you reading me?”

“Thunderbird 3, Alan Tracy. Hello.”

Alan had been  _expecting _to make a fool of himself and the shock of realizing he’s being looked at and _seen_  has him just about jump out of his skin, sends him reeling a few steps backward. The curve of the gravity ring is still unfamiliar enough to trip him up sometimes and it does so; he falls squarely on his ass with a yelp. “_EOS_. Holy shit. Holy  _shit_ , EOS, what the—what the hell’re you doing here? How’d you…what… _how_?”

“I didn’t intend to scare you.”

Alan picks himself up, gawks up at the camera. “ _Startled_  me, didn’t  _scare_  me. EOS, how’d you—what’re you doing here? …uh,  _are_  you here? Oh man, I probably have to shift all comms onto a secured line, don’t say anything else, I gotta—“

“I have taken the necessary precautions. I am not aboard the station at present, this is an encrypted channel. I’ll disconnect if any attempt is made to access it.”

Alan’s not sure how this is even possible, but it doesn’t matter. She got aboard once before, it’s no surprise she’s done it again. It’s not relevant. There’s too much he needs to ask her and he can’t help stringing questions along one after the other, “Where are you, what’s going on? Are you—John. John went after you, are you with him? Where is  _he_ , is he safe? Are  _you_ safe?”

“I’m not going to tell you. John is safe. I’ve been looking after him.”

“You  _have_  to tell me,” Alan orders, glaring up at the camera. 

“I don’t  _want_  to.”

He backs off almost immediately, softens his tone. He’s forgotten just how childlike she sounds so he tries to be patient, steady as he says, “EOS, listen to me. I  _get it_ , all right? I understand if he said he’s got to hide you. But John—he’s not…he isn’t okay. He’s  _really_  messed up and he needs to come _home_. Why’re you calling me now, what’s going on?”

There’s a long silence. The camera remains still and Alan doesn’t know what it means, doesn’t know if he’s accidentally scared her off. He’s relieved when she speaks again, her voice all around him is soft, and it’s almost as though she’s talking to herself, “Things are happening around him. Things are starting to change. There are things he doesn’t know, and I have no way to tell him. I think he’s going to lose control. I think he may go somewhere where I can’t follow.”

Cold shocks through Alan, a tremor of icy fear at the way her voice is small, troubled. “What—what does that mean?”

The camera refocuses, pans upward as she looks away from him. Alan holds his breath, wondering what she’s looking at. “It’s such a long story. You might not understand.”

Alan exhales slowly, tries to stay cool and calm and collected. Tries to channel his brother, though this chafes at the part of him that’s still deeply angry with John. He can’t shake that heavy, cold feeling in his chest, dread as thick and cold as wet cement, but his voice is steady as he answers, “I want to understand. Tell me and I’ll try, I’ll—I’ll figure it out, whatever it is. EOS, c’mon. You can trust me, I swear. I just— _listen_. All  _I_ want; all  _anyone’s_  ever wanted—is to help John. If there’s anything I can do, I’ll do it.  _Please_  EOS.”

Another long stretch of silence, stillness. It seems to drag the seconds by like knives over his skin, tension cutting into him, sharp and deep. Finally she speaks again, “Do you trust me, Alan Tracy?”

The question is whether he has a  _choice_. “I—yeah. John did, so I do. Yes, EOS, I trust you.”

Her second question is far more difficult to answer, “Can I trust _you_?”


	23. with infinite care and kindness

Joseph Gregory Tremaine probably ought to be in a hospital.

Instead it’s just a doctor’s office, and he’s bare-chested on an exam table, trying to take slow, deep breaths and steady a rocketing heartrate, while a curt doctor with brusque, ungentle hands pokes and prods at the scars below his collarbone. He has a strong jaw and even white teeth, a neat, almost military haircut,, though he’s surely too old to still be a serviceman. He hadn’t given his name when John had made up his, had said that _Herr Doctor_ would suffice. Something about him is vaguely unsettling; not in the least the way he had been waiting for his patient in an obviously closed clinic, long past dark.

Still, Kyrano seems to trust him, had shaken the man’s hand and said something in German, before handing over an envelope stuffed with cash. This exchange had taken place right in front of John, leaning heavily on Kyrano’s shoulder, pale, still weak and shaky. He gets the idea that this is not generally how doctors work.

At least it’s a nice enough office. The interior is all white and silver, accented with honey coloured wood. Even after dark, with the distinct impression that no one is meant to be here, it’s still an expansive, welcoming space, quiet and private. It feels safe enough, especially since Kyrano’s shadow is cast over the frosted glass of the exam room’s door.

“This is butchery,” the doctor comments in a crisp German accent, peering through a pair of small round spectacles. “Where was this done?”

It’s the first time John—Joseph—has been directly addressed, since providing the data signature for the pacemaker in his chest. He opens his eyes and has to swallow before he answers, “New Zealand. Um. Auckland.”

“ _New Zealand_!” This is echoed with surprising enthusiasm. “And, in New Zealand, I presume you were operated upon by a particularly gifted sheep? A particularly gifted sheep _is still a sheep_ , Herr Tremaine.” The doctor chuckles at his own joke and shakes his head. “Shoddy work, very shoddy. Unprofessional! You should have come to me first. I am one of the premier cardiac surgeons in the country. You should not be having such palpitations of the heart, if I had been the one to see you first.”

Joseph’s too tired to make excuses or offer an explanation. He shrugs, vague and hopefully somewhat contrite. Thankfully beyond this simple reprimand, _Herr Doctor_ seems uninterested in probing too much further. Instead he hums to himself and, physical examination complete, pulls open one of the drawers beneath the exam table. From inside he withdraws a clear panel, some sort of imaging display. With this in hand, he reaches down to adjust the angle of the table and swings the business end of a scanner down, close overtop of John— _Joseph’s_ —chest.

The room dims and there’s a low hum from the imaging device. In the doctor’s hands, the screen lights up with a bright blue glow as a 3D image of a chest cavity slowly renders. Fuzzy at first, increasingly clear. It takes a few minutes, piling up slowly, seconds creeping by one after the other. Occasionally the doctor tuts softly and his fingertips tweak and manipulate the image, zooming into certain places or tapping certain features to make note of them. He murmurs to himself in German, and then speaks up in English, almost apologetic, “Ahh, Herr Tremaine. This has been quite badly—ah, what is the word—botched? They have botched it.”

Given that the people who implanted the pacemaker were three dubiously credentialed thugs in a backroom of some miscellaneous office in Auckland, this isn’t exactly surprising information. John—John gives up on being Joseph—can’t muster much more than a single syllable in acknowledgment of what he’s been told.

“Oh.”

More tutting and then the lights come back up again, slowly. The device in the doctor’s hands has rendered a holographic image of a heart— _John’s_ heart—rendered to scale, with two bright blue threads leading into it, a small disk shaped pacemaker sitting above. “You see, here? The bright places. Here and here. These leads have been poorly implanted, excessive scar tissue has developed. It is exacerbating the condition that the device is meant to correct. Your heart is falling out of its rhythm. The sensors are not firing efficiently. This will need surgery.”

“Surgery?”

The doctor nods and sets the display aside. He strips pale blue gloves from his hands and stands up, dusts his palms on the front of his buttondown shirt. “The leads must be removed and replaced. It is a simple procedure, but not without risk. Cardiac surgery, you understand. I cannot do it myself, but there are several reasonably efficient surgeons with whom I can put you in contact. It would be best if you saw someone who specializes in this type of extraction.”

“Why can’t you do it?”

He laughs, loud and bright, “My dear boy, my medical license was revoked _years_ ago. No, I am not permitted to practice medicine in this country any longer. However, if you were to _insist_ —and to pay, for my time, my skills, and my _discretion_ , of course—I would happily accompany you to some legally neutral location; international waters, or perhaps low-earth orbit. A simple procedure! It’s been far too long since I practiced.” The older man sobers once more and offers John a hand, helps him sit up at the edge of the table. John’s shirt and jacket are draped over the back of an office chair and the doctor retrieves these, holds them out. “For now, I will write a script for an appropriate medication, and recommend that you never find yourself too far from a hospital. I shall pass this information on to Herr Kyrano, he is very skilled in the acquisition of such necessities.”

“Okay.” Numbly. And then, as an afterthought, “Thank you. Uh, _danke schoen._ ”

The doctor shakes John’s hand, his fingers are warm and strong and he has a far firmer grasp than John does himself. “ _Bitte_. You have paid me very well for not more than half an hour of my time. Thank _you_ , Herr Tremaine, and I hope your condition can be resolved. I shall think of you when I put the first payments onto my new car. _Guten abend_.”

“ _Guten abend_.”

John’s left alone in the office.

After a minute or so he shivers, pulls his shirt on. Still discarded on a counter across the room are his earpiece, his watch. He still has his contacts, but his HUD is blank. The other side of the exam room seems a long way away, and it seems to take a long time and the rap of Kyrano’s knuckles on the door before he can bring himself to get up.

* * *

EOS hasn’t said anything, since seizing control of the car, forcing Kyrano to the shoulder of the road to take care of John. She’s said nothing in response to what he knows she’d heard, in the doctor’s office. Back in the car, sitting in the passenger’s seat again as they pull away from the curb, John doesn’t have anything to say either. His fingers keep wanting to twitch out an apology, but clench into a fist instead. She hasn’t got anything to say, maybe because there’s nothing _to_ say. Maybe the fact that she seems to know it as well as he does—maybe that’s the nail in the coffin.

Because this is it, then. End of the line. They’ll be on the way to a hospital now, because Kyrano’s not a man who takes chances. Not with the lives of others, at least.

Kyrano’s not a man who breaks a lot of silences, either. But he breaks this one, clears his throat and speaks softly, with infinite care and kindness, “I didn’t actually think it would be anything quite so serious. I assumed it was just latent weakness from the malaria, that you’d been pushing yourself too hard. You should have told me.”

It’s impossible not to rise to _that_ one. “Lie of ommission. Seems like the way things get done, lately. Just doing my part.”

Kyrano pauses. It’s a long silence, maybe trying to patch up the one he’s broken. A car that costs this much is insulated from the noise of the city outside, though it’s nearer to midnight than it is to dawn, and there’s not much to hear. It makes the moments seem longer than they are. “Perhaps that’s fair. Regardless, I should have noticed. I’m sorry, John. I’m so sorry that he’s done this to you. You’re going to be fine. We’ll get you put right.”

His tone is sincere, apologetic. It’s the man’s job to know things, and where he doesn’t know them, to find them out. He knows more now than John had been ready to tell him, and that other secret someone, close to his heart—well, she’s not secret any longer. Every time EOS saves his life, it seems to cost her that secrecy, and John's getting sick and tired of the fact.

So fuck it.

Numb, monotone, still staring out the window, “I let him do it. That was the plan. It was always my idea, he just hijacked it, and I wanted him to. _Needed_ him to. I knew what I was doing.” Gaining volume, his voice slipping its hold, getting stronger, “I couldn’t come up with anything else—with any _one_ else—who would help me, so I went to the only other person who wanted her.”

This deserves a lecture, and from Kyrano _especially_ , aware of what his brother is capable of, what _could have_ and nearly _did_ happen to John—it’s an example of supreme restraint and consideration for John’s condition that all he doesn’t comment.

He continues, doesn’t care if Kyrano tries to interrupt. “ _You_ should understand. Protecting people. That’s what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it? Bodyguard. You would’ve taken a bullet for my dad, that was what he _paid_ you for. If you’d do that for money, what would you do if it was _Kayo_?” John trails off, shakes his head and shifts in his seat. They probably ought to be at the hospital by now. Probably he should have noticed the way they’ve passed through the city center, started towards the outskirts, but he’s worn, tired, and distracted by the way failure’s starting to bleed from his heart into the rest of him, heavy and dark. “No one’s ever needed me like she does. And I—I’ve never failed like this before.”

“John, what did you think you were going to accomplish?”

John takes a deep, shuddering breath and leans a little heavier against the passenger's side door. His hand has wrapped around the seat belt that crosses his chest, down from his left shoulder, but it’s just a cover for a more protective gesture, and his palm drifts to that place above his heart, almost without thinking. “I don’t know. I didn’t know. Find my dad. Get him to help. If I didn’t find him, then just—keep going. Keep running, keep anyone from finding us. They’ll take her, if they find out I have her still, they’ll wipe her out, delete her. Or…or they’ll take her apart, use parts of her to make things that are twice as powerful and half as smart. Worse than killing her. Can you imagine, being worse than killed? Being pulled apart and _used_? I can’t let it happen.”

“You think this is the sort of problem your dad could solve.”

“Him or the Hood, and I think I’ve burnt my bridges with the Hood.” John laughs, but hollowly, and there’s no humor in it. “The whole world needs to change for me to get what I want. I’m not smart enough to get around the law and I’m not strong enough to fight it. I can’t give up, but if I keep going—“ He shakes his head and loses the will to continue. He doesn't want to say it out loud, the fact that pressing on might have killed him. He's still a little too numb to the fact to really believe it.

The car changes lanes, they take an exit and come out on a dark, quiet street. Residential. John seems to notice for the first time that they’re not actually heading where he thought they were. It’s not what he expected, but there’s a flicker of hope in the fact that he’d misread Kyrano’s intentions. “—You’re not taking me to the hospital?”

“No.”

“Where, then?”

“Somewhere safer, until I can make a better plan. You _are_ going home, John. But I don’t trust you not to bolt out of a hospital, and that kind of recklessness is the sort that really might get you killed. Whatever your opinions of what I've done so far, I'm certainly not going to let your family go through that.”


	24. of dawn, of perpetuity

This house is a sprawling bungalow, wrapped around an atrium, and Kyrano moves through it like he knows exactly where everything is, even before the lights come up. Before they can completely illuminate the space, Kyrano swipes a palm down a featureless black console on the wall, and they dim back down once again, leave the place cast in moonlight and shadow. Mid-century modern, yet again. John reflects that if he’d thought about this sooner, he probably could’ve narrowed down his father’s hideouts by architect. Doesn’t really matter.

Kyrano sweeps through the place, leaves John standing in the back hall with his bag slung over one shoulder. Absently, he tries the door behind him, just on the off-chance—finds it locked. Not, actually, that he had intended to go anywhere, but it seems important to know where he stands. Clearly Kyrano doesn’t trust him, and isn’t taking any chances.

John kicks off his shoes, drops his bag, shrugs out of his jacket. After a moment of thought, he picks his bag up again. He’s been in the same washed-out jeans and long-sleeved shirt for the past sixteen hours or so, he’s starting to feel the need of a shower, a change of clothes. For the moment, he just crosses the threshold of the back hall into the house proper, drifts aimlessly across the open floor plan and drops himself onto the couch, all loose limbs and weariness, like he hasn’t got anything holding him up any longer.

The living room faces a plate glass window, looks out across the garden in the center of the house, the atrium under the open sky is bright and lush in the moonlight. Blue light and black shadows leach the colour out of the little patch of greenery, and for a while John just watches the play of the wind through the leaves. Eventually he finds his earpiece in his hands, retrieved from a pocket. He hadn’t put it back in; it doesn’t feel right, talking to her with Kyrano around.

Kyrano hasn’t said anything about EOS, either. About circumstances around her, sure, but not about the AI herself. John had been ready to explain, or ready to try, anyway. He’s long since convinced himself that he can’t make anyone else understand her, and all the effort he’s spent on trying is hollow, false.

“John?”

“Mm.” Kyrano’s called him from across the room and John lifts a hand, gives a vague wave. The couch is more comfortable than anything so sleek and modern has any right to be, all clean lines and straight edges and bright, creamy white. John feels like a smudge of dirt on the pristine surface, a heap of dirty laundry, grey on grey on dyed white leather.

“You all right?”

Unequivocally, no. “Yeah.”

Kyrano crosses the room, quick and quiet. He puts himself in John’s eyeline, but doesn’t make a move to sit down or come any nearer. “I’m going to go and pick up the medication you’ve been prescribed. I won’t be long. You should get yourself to bed, lie down and get some sleep. I’ll lock up when I leave, you’ll be safe here.”

“From what?”

Kyrano grimaces. “The Hood is on the move. If I can’t know where _he_ is, then I am going to be very certain I know where _you_ are. Your name, your face, your identity—even before your brother went and let the entire _world_ know you’re missing, you were being talked about in the sort of channels that attract the attention of dangerous people. Best to keep you under a low profile.” The older man fishes in a pocket, pulls out a small, flat device with a single button. He tosses it onto the coffee table in front of John. “This is a panic button. In case of medical emergency, the doors will unlock from the outside and there’ll be an ambulance here in three minutes. They’ll _only_ open from the outside,” he repeats, as though this is the most important part of the statement.

John doesn’t move to pick it up. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good boy. That’s what I like to hear.” Kyrano gives John an appraising once-over and then cautions, “Try not to fall asleep on that couch, John, you’ll wake up with kinks all the way down your spine. I’ll be back in an hour or so. Get yourself to bed.”

“Uh huh.”

Satisfied, Kyrano offers a brief nod and then moves brusquely for the door. He calls over his shoulder as he goes, “Good night, John.”

“Mmhmm.”

The door opens and closes and the house is empty and silent and John’s going to fall asleep on the couch.

This is the part where Scott would’ve scoffed and proceeded to hover disapprovingly until he got his way. Where Virgil and Gordon would’ve plopped down on either side of him, talked across him endlessly, made it impossible to fall asleep. Alan—Alan would’ve turned up too late, caught him already sleeping, been the one with the blanket and the glass of water, and probably crashed on the floor next to the couch.

Loneliness isn’t supposed to be something that happens to John. Especially not like this, not when he’s not actually alone. He’s still turning his earpiece over and over in his hands, wondering when the last time he went this long without talking to her was. Now, more than ever, maybe there’s too much he has to say.

So, carefully reinserting his earpiece, with a heavy, shaky sigh, he starts, “…We need to talk.” His voice breaks and he takes a long time to collect himself, sitting still with his hands clenched at his sides. It’s hard, trying to remember the way he used to be, the way he could be calm and cool and how neatly he’d walled up the part of himself that loses people. It takes some rummaging around in the cluttered up mess of his soul, but eventually John steels his tone and continues, “We need to talk about contingency plans.”

In the darkness before him, EOS starts to render an assortment of data, research she’s done without his input. She’s stolen a copy of the holographic scan the doctor had taken, and she displays this front and center, bright blue and with the hardware outlined in red. EKG readings from the pacemaker that was never supposed to _need_ to be a pacemaker, charted over time. Two scholarly articles about cardiac lead extraction, a list of hospitals that perform the procedure. “I’ve looked into it. There are risks, of course, but you’re young and healthy, and in the hands of a practiced surgeon the prognosis is—“

“I don’t mean for me.”

The heart in the center of his vision disappears and she replaces it, her same old circle of white lights. Her avatar is such a strange thing, so simple. John wonders what it means to her, if it makes her think of all the same things—of dawn, of perpetuity, of being looked at and being seen. “For me, then.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think…I think this is your stop. I think it’s time we go our separate ways.”

“I don’t think that at all.”

John cringes at the defiance in her tone, how it’s familiar. She’s gotten so good at arguing him into a corner, he doesn’t know if he can bear up against it, this time. “I know what you think.”

Haughty now, and still just as willful, just as intractable, “You haven’t a hope in the span of all creation of knowing what _I_ think.”

“EOS, please. This is—it’s your safety. If you stay with me, you’re going to be found. The thing that keeps you safe is killing me. That’s my fault, that’s on me. I did something stupid and I should’ve—should’ve anticipated something like this.”

“You’re not going to die.” Stubborn as ever.

John chuckles at that, flicks his gaze over her assembled collection of data. “That’s just purposeful misreading of the statistics. You’re reading about what’ll fix me, not what I’ve gotta survive in the time between now and _getting_ fixed. You’ve got the data—chart it back, every time I’ve been tired, stressed, all this time we spent running—it’s all been doing its damage. I haven’t done myself any favours.”

Silence. Her silences have always been such strange things, somehow she always manages to fill them with so much meaning. A few empty seconds of reproach or amusement or sarcasm, it’s always been one of John’s very favourite things about her, one of the truest parts of her existence—that she can still be real when there’s no empirical way to tell that she’s actually even still there. This silence is pure stubbornness, so he continues, trying to make her understand, “I don’t want to die, and if I don’t want to die, then I need…need to find people who can help me. Someone’s going to have to cut me open again, undo whatever damage got done in the first place. There’ll be questions about why I’ve got a custom-built supercomputer where a pacemaker’s supposed to be. For anyone who knows what I’ve done—the answer’s going to be obvious. People know I stole you, and they’ll ask where you went. I _have_ to be able to tell them that I don’t know.”

“I’m not going.”

“EOS.”

“You can’t make me. I belong here.”

This wasn’t supposed to be hard. She’s supposed to be rational, reasonable. “EOS, come on.” John takes a deep breath, pushes the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to stifle a burgeoning headache. “Don’t—listen, if you don’t go, then someone’s going to take you from me, and if it’s the GDF, then you’ll be deleted. You’ll be gone. D’you understand? I can’t stop that. If that’s what you want to let happen, then—then let me find a way to make a backup. Copy you. Kyrano probably knows somewhere safe, someplace we can stash you away. You’d need to hide. I don’t know how long I’d have to leave you, but—“

Her tone sharpens to a silver edge, “You can’t copy me.”

“Just to—“

“ _No_. You can’t copy me, you mustn’t _ever_ copy me.” She’s angry now, in a way she hasn’t been since he first encountered her. Her tone is pure contempt, still with that edge to it as she says, “Can you even imagine? You seem to have this idea that there’s something worse than death that could happen to me—do you not understand how much worse it would be, to be two where you’d been one before? Could you perceive at a second exact version of yourself, and know a truth as horrible as that? What would you do? There cannot be two of me.”

John pauses, slowly catching up with what she means. “I’m not sure I—“

“I’m not EOS.”

This is the sort of statement that would be dangerous to make to someone with a newly diagnosed heart condition, if not for the fact that John’s never heard anything as obviously untrue. “…what?”

“They copied me off TB5.” Her avatar in his eyeline has gone a strange shade of icy, bright blue. “I’m not the original, not technically. I was new in the moment they made me. I’m the one they _kept_ , because the other they deleted.”

The blue makes a bit more sense, the way a cold shock of understanding jolts through him, prickles an electric shiver of horror down his spine. “Christ. I didn’t…I never knew that. I didn’t know that. _God_. How _could_ they—“ There’s an unexpected shock of grief, for a loss he hadn’t realized he’d sustained up until now. The thought of her—his version of her—alone and cut off and _then_ —

He has to push the idea away, can’t cope with it, the way it feels like pain and makes his mouth taste of blood. “You never told me.”

Her voice grows gentle again, and he hopes she doesn't mourn in the same way he does, hopes she hasn't ever felt what he feels now---only how couldn't she? “I didn’t want you to feel it was your fault. It was done by people who don’t understand me.”

John shudders again, still shrinking away from the idea of what he’s allowed to happen to her. That deep, painful feeling, the sort of sorrow he’s trained himself out of, bubbling up through the cracks and crevices, shattering his voice again. “I never meant—I shouldn’t have—“

“It isn’t your fault, John.”

It’s his silence now, because there aren’t words for this new reality, this new version of the truth where he’s already lost her, failed her the way he keeps telling himself he can't. Cloud cover starts to creep across the sky and the whole world seems darker, colder, and deeply, deeply unkind.

“Are you all right?”

“Nope.” Pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, palming tears out of them with a weak, soft chuckle. “Really, _really_ kind of not. Definitely not all right.”

“I’m sorry.” Her voice is—always has been—so soft. More than once John’s wondered why a girl’s voice, why she’d chosen to sound so sweet and innocent and young. Wonders if she always meant to trick people into trusting her, wonders if it’s like fighter pilots and the way jets have a recording of a woman’s voice, to scold and nag a pilot out of a dangerous maneuver. He wonders if the voice she chose aboard Thunderbird 5 was the first voice she’d ever chosen, if she’d chosen it just for him. If she’d had any idea of the way she would write herself onto his heart. It’s just another thing he should have asked her sooner.

“Don’t be. This was…this has always been my fault. Everything, all of this—you. I should’ve…it was arrogant, stupid of me, thinking I had anything to offer you. You got by fine without me, I should have never—“ _Trapped you. Walled you up, tied you to me, made you think you could owe me anything, when I owe you so much more. Got you_ **_killed_**. He can’t seem to get any of that out, can’t seem to cut a path through the emotion to find a way for the words.

“John, please don’t.”

He shakes his head, knows she can’t see him and has to continue, haltingly, “No, listen. Really. I made a mistake. I keep making _mistakes_. What…what would you have done, if anything had gone wrong, if something had happened to me on on the moon? There wouldn’t have been any way out, no networks to escape onto, no nearby system to hide out on—just me, dead. Me, and you, and you’d have been stranded and trapped and all alone until the batteries ran down.”

“I knew the risks. I stayed with you then, and I’ll stay with you now.”

“ _No_.” This is maybe the worst thing anyone’s ever told him and John doesn’t know what to do but shrink away from imagining that reality. "EOS, you _can't_ \---" A sudden catch of his breath interrupts him, a jerking gasp of air that seems to clarify his thoughts. Stubbornness. The last time he pleaded with her was also the first time---and the memory of it is as sharp and clear as it was then. Kneeling aboard TB5, his hand hovering over the emergency shutdown that would have cut her off, ended her existence. There's only ever been one way to get through to her. It's a moment of clarity that happens so fast that it's over as soon as he exhales. A deep, steadying breath follows and John's voice calms, evens out. "---Fine. _Fine_ , if you won't---if you won't go, then there's just you and me. If there's just you and me---then forget everything else. Forget Penelope, forget my father. Forget the Hood, forget my _family_. I give up, and we've got to keep going. Can't forget Kyrano, so we've got maybe half an hour to figure out a way out of this place, and then we've gotta give him the slip. _That's_ going to be next to impossible, but...hell. Between the pair of us, we've gotta be smarter than he is."

For the first time, she's given pause. "John, you're not well."

It's hard, pushing himself up off of the deceptively cushy couch, but not for the first time, John's got purpose seeping into him, straightening his limbs, pulling him back up to carry him forward. It's coming back, slowly, that old, steely calm. "Nope. But I've also got a standing offer from someone who said he'd fix me if I got to low earth orbit. So we're gonna figure that out. Right? If it's us against the world, then it's time we got out of the world."

It's when he's at his most human, his most fractured and frenetic, that he confuses her the most. That's fine, probably she could use the reminder that she doesn't _actually_ understand _everything_ at all times. "What on earth are you talking about?"

There's a way the human brain works, and maybe it's a way that hers doesn't, actually. She's reasonable, rational. So she's kept them on track, done more than her part in keeping them safe and hidden and on target, following their objective. Her ideas are practical. She doesn't come up with wild, madcap solutions to problems that'll change the rest of their lives forever. "Not earth. Actually, I'm starting to think Mars."

"Mars."

"Always wanted to go to Mars."

"You think we'll be able to make it to Mars."

"Mostly I think Kyrano won't be able to _follow_ us to Mars. Not him, not the Hood." John reaches down for the bag he'd dropped onto the couch, pulls it back over his shoulder again. There's no time to spare for a shower, but so what. This isn't like the house in Tokyo, he's not interested in staying trapped, and highly doubts that this is a box built to keep him, if he doesn't _want_ to be kept. The panic button's probably a good place to start and he hefts it in his palm, turns it over a few times. "Get me a read on this thing."

"John, this isn't a good plan."

"At least it's a plan." The base incredulity in her tone makes him crack a grin. It's not a _good_ plan, but at least it's a start.

...but then there's the sound of the lock of the back door, unlatching, and abruptly it's an end. John freezes, curses internally, and his brain kicks up into overdrive, contingencies to contingencies, reformatting around the new objective. Kyrano. Ex-mercenary, wickedly shrewd, a twin to the most evil man John's ever met. Already wise to the notion that his charge might try to bolt. Vested interest in keeping him penned in, in taking him home. This is going to take clever, quick thinking, going to take partnership, going to take a great deal of lying, but that just seems to be the essence of the game so far.

John drops his bag as the door starts to swing open, doesn't want to tip his hand. Pretends he's been caught at nothing more serious than having fallen asleep on the couch, adopts a sheepish, apologetic posture and is already about to apologize, when the wrong man suddenly fills the doorway.

John's got a newly sharpened awareness of the beat of his heart, and standing, frozen, his heart seems like the only thing that still works.

His father seems to have been similarly pinned in place, caught with his hand on the door knob, staring right back at his son. Jeff unfreezes first, steps slowly inside and let's the door fall closed behind him. His movements are all deliberate, caution, and when he breaks the silence, it's with a measured, even tone, like he's trying very hard not to spook his son, "I wasn't supposed to startle you," he hazards, still incredibly careful, keeping his distance. He settles into his posture, stands tall and straight and exactly the way John remembers him, looking like Scott and sounding like Virgil, with Gordon's mastery of body language and Alan's bright, bright blue eyes. "Kyrano said you'd gone to bed."

There's really only one response to that, though John has to swallow, hard, has to take a deep breath before he can make his voice work, "I think you'll find Kyrano's _kind of a liar._ "


	25. gone completely off-script

John’s usually so good at plans.

And this was supposed to be the plan all along, wasn’t it? This was the objective. Being here, maybe not in this specific place, but in this moment. Having the answer. Proving the negative.

There’s so much that needs to be said. John’s had more than enough time to have this encounter in his head, time and time again, playing both sides of it, endlessly back and forth. Mining his memory for the little scraps and threads of long ago conversations, trying to format them into something predictive, something to prepare for the objective he had maybe never actually expected to achieve.

His dad’s not supposed to just _stand_ there, staring at him, but in fairness, John’s staring right back. Things have already gotten started on an unexpected note, already forced a mental reevaluation of everything Kyrano’s said, a quick inventory to try and turn up any other obvious lies. Lies about his father seem to nest into each other. If Penelope knows, then Parker knows; if Parker knows then Lord Creighton Ward knows. If the Hood knows, if Kyrano knows, then had Kayo known? Is that their family’s _other_ secret? Something about this lie is contagious, parasitic, gets into the blood and spreads into everything else. John has it just as bad as anyone else, has told it to the people he cares about more than anyone else in the world.

But maybe there’s a lie he’s been telling for far longer, and maybe his father is the only person for whom John’s been saving the truth.

“I kept looking for you. Scott said to stop, but I didn’t know how.”

His father chuckles softly and maybe there’s a wry note of sadness to it, but it’s been too long for John to be sure. “Well, you’ve always been single-minded.”

 _Tends to obsess_. John has to wonder if his father remembers reading those same words off a decades old report card. Wonders if then and there Jeff had decided to reformat the criticism, reframe it as _single-mindedness._ It’s a clever rejoinder, turning the focus of the conversation back onto his son. John steps around the trap, presses on, “If I’d known what I was really supposed to be looking for, I _would_ have found you.”

“I imagine you would have. If you wanted an explanation for faking a plane crash, that’s it in a nutshell.” Jeff takes a step forward, still with that cautious air about him. There’s half a room and a couch in between the two of them, plenty of distance and some semblance of a barrier. “I’m glad to see you, John,” he offers, making another careful overture to divert talk away from the topic at hand.

This is probably true—undoubtedly true, the way his father looks at him, stepping out of the shadows and into a bright patch of moonlight. His father has briefcase in one hand, wears a long, charcoal coloured trench coat. _Alarmingly_ like Scott. Tall and dark, though grey(er) at the temples, with that that far stronger jaw that Gordon got secondhand. Somewhere along the line, the glasses he only used to wear for reading have become a permanent fixture, squarish, wire-rimmed frames in a soft pewter colour. In the light his eyes are sad, even if his voice isn’t. He continues, with his not-sad voice, tone deceptively light, casual, “I’ve seen a lot less of you than I have of your brothers. Nature of the beast, I suppose. Occasionally some newscast catches one or the other of them, but then, you never did like a great deal of attention. I’m not sure I saw anything of you at all before that interview in London.” Jeff pauses and sets the briefcase down, starts to unbutton his jacket. He looks up and smiles, repeats himself, “It’s good to see you.”

Words line up, waiting to be said, forming an orderly queue of things that _are_ true, but are still impossibly hard to say. John’s dividing his attention very carefully between the man before him and the beat of his heart in his chest, like if he imagines the rhythm correctly then it can’t get away on him. The imagined sound almost drowns all the things that he’s _supposed_ to say. _You too, Dad. It’s good to see you too, Dad. I need your help. I had to find you. I found you. It’s good to see you too, I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad I found you. I guess you found me. I guess it doesn’t matter. I need your help, I’m glad to see you. I’m glad you’re here, I need you to help me. Dad, you_ **_have_** _to help me._

Maybe thinking all these things takes longer than just babbling them one after the other would have, silence eating up the moments he really should be using to say _something_.

“John?” His father tosses his jacket over the back of the couch, takes another step forward, and another, until the piece of furniture is the only thing between them. He doesn’t reach out, but he could, if he wanted to. Instead he puts his hands in the pockets of his trousers, a careful indication that he’s not going to cross the space between them without permission. His voice is still soft, his entire manner has been all kid-gloves and caution, all unnatural and wrong on a man as powerful as Jeff Tracy. “John, I know this is a lot. I can give you some space if you need it, just say so, I can go—“

“— _don’t_ , no. Don’t, don’t do that.” His voice jumps the line, skips urgently ahead of all the things he’d had lined up, but one straggling sentiment fights its way forward, “Dad.”

Maybe it’s been a long time since his father’s heard that. Maybe that’s what he’s waiting for, because that sadness in his eyes seems to lessen somewhat. He makes another one of those deliberate movements, starts to circle around to the same side of the couch. “Can I sit?”

It seems so strange that he’d ask permission, and John shrugs, answers before thinking, “It’s your house.”

 

>  
>
>> » Oh, you’re a dreadful host. Still, it’s good to hear the back-sass is still functional, you’d gotten worryingly quiet for a minute there.

This appears in his eyeline in the same moment that Jeff chuckles.

. - S - H - U - T - . - U - P -.

—flickers out of his fingers before he can stop them.

 

>  
>
>> » Ha. I’m being perfectly polite. This is what we’ve been waiting for, this is our desired outcome. Problem solved. Go on.

The ice over top of the whole interaction is breaking up around him, but John still steps away from the couch as his father sits down, retreats to the other side of the coffee table without quite meaning to. He’s awkwardly aware of the way he’s standing, his limbs all long and extraneous, his hands finding each other, his forearms, his pockets in quick succession. This is always so unfair, so unnatural—the way he’s forgotten how to figure out just _standing_. This isn’t a problem he has in orbit.

“How are you feeling?” Jeff asks, sitting down but not settling back, keeping to the forward edge of the couch and leaning forward into the conversation, like he respects the distance that’s been set, but doesn’t have to _like_ it. “You’ve been through such a hell of a lot, John, and to hear what it’s all added up to—“

“I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

 

>  
>
>> » Tell your father the truth.

“…Yeah. Yeah, I’m…I’m okay, I’m fine. I had to do this and I did, and you’re here now, so…so that’s done. There’s…we…we have a lot to talk about, and I just, I need to—just…“ The breath that catches in his chest is sharp and shaky and one of his hands flies up, trying to snag the hitch of his breathing, cover his mouth and trap it before it runs away on him. Late, late, it always all seems to catch up with him a little too late, the lump in his throat and the pressure of moisture in his eyes and the fact that he doesn’t _want_ to be like this, that he can’t _stop_ , has to keep going, close his eyes against anything else _she_ might say to prod him into it—only that squeezes tears down his face and just _fuck_ and hell and god damn _everything_ , teeth catching the back of one of his knuckles, he _can’t_ —

It’s a low, narrow coffee table, barely usable.

Stupid, architectural looking thing, small in contrast to the largeness, the openness of the space. Probably very expensive, in that way that stupidly unusable things are. Barely enough room for a cup of coffee at all, certainly not a practical piece of furniture.

Jeff’s built more like Virgil than he is like long-limbed Scott or John, but he still steps over it easily, puts himself squarely past the walls of his son’s rapidly crumbling personal bubble, catches hold of an elbow, a shaking shoulder, and pulls John bodily into the hug he’s needed for what has to feel like a lifetime.

Well, _then_ there’s just nothing for it.

He still doesn’t know what to do with his hands, one of them is caught in a fistful of the back of his father’s shirt, the fingertips of the other are biting so hard and and deep into Jeff’s shoulder that he’ll probably leave a mark. Doesn’t mean to, didn’t mean to do any of this, still has too much he needs to explain, to worry about, to find a way to fix. But John doesn’t know how to do anything else, in this moment he’s worked so hard for and still didn’t know how to expect.

In spite of everything, he doesn’t feel like he deserves to be here. Not first, anyway. It should be Scott; who’s been trying to find a way to belong in his father’s shadow instead of at his side; Virgil, who’s had to become the bedrock for the entire family; Gordon who hugs _everybody_ and just knows how to do it, would know what’s right for even this impossible occasion. Alan; who’s already forgotten their mother, can’t afford to forget their father. John hasn’t been faithful, he’s just been too broken to let go.

There’s a hand cradling the back of his head, another rubbing up and down his back, warm and strong and gentler than his own, because his father always knows what he’s doing, knows enough about a moment like this to still have command of his voice, tight control of his emotions. Maybe there’s a tremor in Jeff’s voice, but more likely John’s just hearing things through his own mess of emotion, scraps and fragments filtering through, “—my boy…gonna be okay, John—Johnny, you can…know you’re like this, not your fault…sort it all out, all of it. C’mon now, John—“

Can’t keep doing this. Too much at stake. It takes an incredible effort to unlock his fingers, loosen his grip and start to pull away; takes a titanic sniffle and a big shuddery draw of breath to get ahold of himself. John’s still coming up empty on whatever the appropriate response is supposed to be, for the sons of no-longer-absent-fathers, and there are still a pair of hands, strong and steady on his shoulders when he manages to scrape his voice back into some semblance of usability, “—Dad, I need to…need you to help me. Can—can you…?”

“Whatever I can do, John. Probably going to help you sit down first, okay?”

In an armchair, not on the couch, so John can get a bit of air, have his own space and pull himself back together. His dad squeezes his shoulder just briefly, and then crosses the room. John watches his father, aware that he’s _privileged_ to be watching his father, as Jeff opens the doors of a sideboard between the living and dining rooms, pulls out a bottle of liquor and a pair of glasses. He takes his time, probably realizes that his son is still collecting himself, picking up all the assorted pieces. He tucks the bottle beneath his arm, has a glass in each hand as he heads to the kitchen, comes back shortly with ice and soda water in one glass, straight scotch in the other.

Jeff sits down, hooks an ankle around the base of a coffee table that isn’t especially suited to its purpose, and pulls it closer to John. He sets both glasses down, and then nudges the ice water a little closer to John’s edge of the table.

It’s not clear how much Jeff knows about everything that’s gone on in the past few months, but John’s fairly sure that the story of his _last_ encounter with extremely expensive liquor hasn’t made it back to him. He hesitates the barest moment before swapping the glasses around.

“Not on your _life_ , kiddo,” Jeff corrects sternly and catches his son’s wrist before he can pick up his drink. “Literally, in your case.”

John clears his throat pointedly, though it's still a little awkward to try and address his father like an equal, like he's someone who shouldn't begrudge his son a drink at the end of a hard day. “...present company considered, I think I’ve earned the risk?”

“Present company considered, the buck stops _here_ as far as your health is concerned.” The glass of water gets pressed into John’s hand, already damp with condensation, ice clinking softly. “Drink your water.”

“But—“ It’s entirely too soon for there to be anything like childish whining. This absolutely isn’t that.

“Here.”

An insultingly small splash of scotch gets tipped into John’s glass and his father takes the opportunity to toast crystal against crystal. “To your health.”

It’s rude not to drink after a toast, and bad luck besides, so ice water it is. And it does help, probably more than an actual drink would’ve, takes the edge off some of the emotional aftershocks. The chill of it does send a shiver through him and John settles back in his chair a little bit, tries to relax, even as his father puts his own empty glass back down on the table.

“Better?”

Father still knows best, apparently. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

The room goes quiet as Jeff gets comfortable, loosens the collar of his shirt and starts to roll up his sleeves. John’s fingertips tap out a quick query on the arm of the chair.

. - Y - O - U - . - O - K - A - Y - .

 

>  
>
>> » There’s utterly no reason I would be anything but perfectly all right. I’m happy for you. I like him so far. He knows about hydration. Find the time to eat something within the hour, or I’m going to order pizza and blow all this careful secrecy to bits.

. - T - H - A - N - K - S - . - I - . - G - O - T - . - I - T - .

John can’t help a grin and it must look out of place, the way his father raises an eyebrow, sits forward and goes to top his glass up again. “Something funny?”

This is where he’s supposed to start. That’s an obvious cue, John can follow _that_ , at least. He takes a deep breath and is glad, once again, of the glass of water, makes it easier to muster his voice. “Yeah. Uh. God, it’s a long story, I’m not sure—not sure where I should _start_ —“

“Then I’m going to stop you there.”

John stalls abruptly, blinks at his father, gone completely off-script. “…Sorry?”

“I’ll go first.”

That makes sense. It’s been three years, of course that makes sense. There’s nothing John needs to say so urgently that it could possibly trump the explanation for all of this, everything that’s brought his father _here_ , to this place and this situation and this moment. “Oh. Oh, uh…yeah. Sure, yes. Please. Sorry, I’m sorry, I—“

“It’s fine. You’re going to let me talk, all right, John? And you’ll listen, because you’ve always been good at that. It's possible I'm the one who's going to need _your_ help, and I need to be quite sure you understand what I’ve told you before you go answering me back. Is that clear?”

If there ever _was_ a script, it’s been burnt to ashes and buried in the yard. John shifts in his chair, sits up a little straighter, a little more wary about the way Jeff’s tone has changed. “Yeah—yes, I mean. Dad, of course. I just…I wasn’t sure how to ask, and I didn’t know if you’d—“

"John."

"Sorry, sir."

It's a little alarming how quickly _that_ term of address comes snapping back into being. John's hand goes to his own collar, makes some pretense of undoing a button or two, and there's a rapid, subtle flutter of his fingertips,

. - G - E - T - . - T - H - I - S - . - D - O - W - N - .

 

>  
>
>> » FAB

A blinking cursor appears in the corner of John's vision, ready for a running transcript, even as John watches his father throw back another drink. He begins abruptly, without any further preamble, "After the war, I was involved with a GDF project called Heavenward."


End file.
